I thought of calling them
an Ingrown Toenail,
but did not.
Toenails of this sort hurt.
No, these are snails, not nails,
snug votaries of an elite,
hiding from the world's unheed
in the smug self-immolation of a coterie.
Makers of good clues to solvable crosswords
are bad news in this Society
where the emperor wears no clothes,
where they painstakingly compose
bad prose,
chop it to bits
and call it poetry.
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©Renate Mitchell. May not be reproduced in any form online or offline without explicit written permission.