I Wouldn't Go There If I Were You

He wants to sled on the slippery slope below the moral high ground. Every little breeze seems to whisper "Jeez" as the bishop pricks it. Miters make tight corners and large, florid squares. The tragedy of the commons lies below the horizon. There, the sheep may safely graze under the drooping eyes of the hired hand. The white glove watches the chromed Kenworths speed by but its thumb stays flat. Sit and spin. Sit and spin.