The Trial, by Junius

Corpulent Orson sits at the table in silence—

Brimming room coughs and mutters prayer or foregone judgement

In sweat-lodge bother, the melting faces of church ladies

And dust to dust stirrings their throats like dirtpan on the floor—

Other faces voices shoulder limb thumb stuck in stalled machine—

Corpulent Orson sits back in his chair, tumid eye of the room

Bloody, shot, bloodshot and bleary w/ blaring baritone

But no meat to dress these fleshmade words—

Er, the plaintiff has been wrongly accused, er, impugned I mean, for being of unsound mind and/or opinion.

Now whether this may be the case is not up to me to judge, it is my lot to defend this poor, er, innocent fellow.

Esteemed members of the court, divine church ladies of the jury, I quote scriptures when I say let he who is w/o sin cast the first stone.

—Here an objection was made that this excluded the distaff sex—

Objection sustained, er, uh, taken. May only blemishless menschen pummel his guilt to ruddy dust.

All others, I suppose, have at it.