Humanism is not given like a birthday gift.
It is there or it is not. Thirty-seven million nots
crawl this teeming land of ours, straight laced MGM lovers.
They love the black and white of existence. Gray is dead.
Humanists are hated by cowboys. Zane Grey created humanist
bartenders with a shotgun under the bar just in case one of the nots
gets rowdy, blows a gasket and shoots a lousy card dealer.
It was the right thing to do after all, evangelically of course.
Is there another right? “Mortician man, come measure me a coffin.”