Conspiracy
A poem
by Chris Hibbard
Can’t go outside in the day anymore
They watch me as soon as I open the door
With raincoat and sunhat, boots, gloves and glasses
I hide from their beams that turn brains to molasses
They hide microchips in my food
and cameras in the potty
They hope to catch me in the nude
or doing something naughty
But they won’t get me, nosiree
For I change in the cupboard, don’t you see
I switch clothes like Clark Kent, though Superman’s dead
I’ve foiled their plans, by tinfoiling my head
They whisper about me each place that I go
The plot and they plan and they know that I know
That they know that I know that they know that I know
That they know that I know that I’ve broken their code
You think that the papers all write about men
Like the President’s subjects and Shahs in Iran
You think that the papers are news, but you see
It’s not really news, for it’s all about me
Hidden in ciphers, glyphs and riddles
Clues to prevent me from finding the middle
I can’t go outside in the day anymore
For they watch me as soon as I open the door
They whisper about me each place that I go
The plot and they plan and they know that I know
