Oh, Children, Watch What You Know

The children, they gathered.
They gathered around the god,
looking for peace, for satisfaction.
The priest came forward
wearing the traditional garb
of silver and black robes
with the red sneakers of awareness.
He carried communal comprehension,
tribal knowledge,
and the secret to making chicken noodle soup.
He was mother memory,
the orange juice for a world
left to the mercy of superstition
and prime time viewing.
In the customary rite,
he told the story
for the young, the weak,
so all could learn, remember, and know
the time long past
when It appeared.
“And thus It was come unto us
and bade us call It television.”
With an intricate bow,
habitually practiced,
the priest flipped a knob.
An eerie grey glow
filled the room.
And the children, they watched.
And the children, they searched
for the meanings flashed
in black and white snow.

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