“If You Work For A Living, Why Do You Kill Yourself Working?”
George Orwell sighed exasperatedly from his perch on a gaudily opaque Cumulus, tweed jacket more askew and bewrinkled than usual, ruffled, like his wing feathers, by the cyclotron effect of spring breezes. "Animal-farmers" was what they were calling themselves. the new craze among the Earthlings. Orwell's harp clanged as he reached into his pocket for some of his dwindling supply of tobacco. (It would be helpful to understand at this juncture, gentle reader, that we are speaking not farm-animal farmers, but of budding intellectuals and their cultish enthusiasm for certain philosophical trends.) They now fell into two distinct groups: Animal Farmers and Animal Right's Activists.
Wat Tyler scoffed in mock-delightitude from a nearby wispy Stratus.
"There now, ye see? Enter into it with the best intentions; free the serfs, nothing unreasonable, and what do you get?"
Orwell raised a commiseratory eyebrow at Wat. "yes I suppose this is what we get for expecting a halfway functional thought-process out of this lot. It's like biting into a delicious chili-pepper sandwich when you've grown the peppers yourself and finding out there's legos inside. Carnassials aren't meant to chew on plastic but they always end up doing it anyway. You make all this effort to put together the perfect metaphor against cultism, and what do you get out of it? a cult! that's what."
"Put out a piece of advice on anything; metermaiding, actuarying, how to avoid growing taller... doesn't even matter how specific the advice is, and soon enough people are on the railroad to wallpaperville; divining the future with shower curtain rings and making tinfoil hats to guard against mind control. They'd be better off in a one-horse-road dirt town. 'Least then they'd have a reason for staying benighted."
Orwell sighed again. "O'well, W'at ya gonna do. Can I bum a light?" George held up his hand-rolled cigarette in the universal sign of brotherly inquiries.
"'Course." Wat returned obligingly, searching his pockets with his tongue out in concentration, and finally producing a disheveled matchbook. (Which he had no idea how he got because matchbooks weren't even invented when he was alive. But every cloud has a silver hole in it's plot.) He lit a match and held it out to George, who puffed his fag alight then held it out to the other cloud-dwelling gentleman. "Don't mind if I do." Tyler accepted, eagerly taking a drag and returning the morsel of friendship to it's owner's stained fingers. The two men sat in silence awhile.
"I've been working on a poem." Wat admitted bashfully. "It's kind of my take on a play between acrostic and alliteration. I've written a few before, but I'm particularly proud of this one because it ignores the starting-letter rule and works phonetically if read aloud. Care to take a squiz?"
"Certainly." Orwell replied, passively intrigued by his cloudly compadre. "I could use a distraction."
Tyler held out the poem on a wrinkled piece of paper. "I'm going to title it UGLY EDITION" he explained.
George began to read, quietly muttering to himself, smirking sometimes through his puffs of cigarette:
Unpalatable ugliness unhorses upset unconventional urchins, unless
Guiled gaurdless; going gratefully groggy: gargantuanly gorgeously gifted gods
Let lower lifeforms languish logically; loving life's lonely longing lullabies...
Yet, yowling yon ubiquitous yogurty yellowbellies, yearning Euripides
Epistemologizes every equine-ebbing epiphany; emptying ethical empathy.
Dystopian diviners don delectably duplicitous dispositions, diluting discernible
Impetus in investigatory impartiality. Incredible, isn't it? Inconceivably intrepid.
To tell Ptolemy's treatise to tosstrot? Trapped tangibly to terrifying tasks; torn
Irretrievably; inexpungible indignation inexorably interfaced in idolatry inclinations.
Only Orpheus's opposite owns optimally ossified homages on omniscience;
Nullifying neophytic knowledges. No narcissist's necrotic nip nears nonsense.
"So... whadya fink?" Tyler asked nervously.