Go With Your Gut
by Bill Stinson

When a child scrapes his head

And infection ensues,

‘Cause his ma’s tender kiss

Fails to plug up the ooze,

 

Then the floodgates fly open,

The guardrails come down.

And corporal integrity’s

Lost at the crown.

 

The heebies and jeebies,

They course through the skin.

Immuno cells herald

The skirmish within.

 

Though the boy may survive

His frame not forsaken,

The soul’s something else

All stirred up and shaken.

 

For life is determined

To settle in places

Where nobody looks

And few fire traces.

 

Soon the colony’s set

The encampment secured,

The internalized biome

Of microbes inured.

 

They join the great fleet

Of bacterial swell

Where thirty-nine trillion

Rogue foreigners dwell.

 

Since the spring of the span

Of our hominid kind,

This mob’s called the shots

In the shade of the mind.

 

They pull at our tendons,

The marionette strings,

And pump the pneumatics

That juice up our bling.

They generate thoughtscapes

That mimic free will,

And activate airways

With words that sound chill.

 

In the end, scarce a ‘Vinci

Could think up a copter

Without the consent

Of these bodies adopter.

 

And remember that famous

First step on the moon?

The credit belongs to a

Germ named McGoon.

 

What nobody knows

Is the measure to which

The little homuncular

Buggers insist

 

On running the show

And meshing their wills

To conduce an old codger

To chug up the swill.

 

So the next time you feel

You’re not feeling yourself,

Just go with your gut

Because that’s who you are.

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