I sometimes think, when clients try to cow
me into doing what they have in mind,
or when a costumed person tells me how
I must proceed with forms or humankind,
or when attempts are made to guide my course
at Disneyland, or school, or in a bank,
that even Dad could not impose his force
on me, by carrot, stick, caress, or spank.

Obedience will never be a suit
that I’ll select or wear with any grace.
Compliance doesn’t fit me, and its fruit
will never tempt me. I won’t hide my face
or brain or nerve in any century:
Obedience cannot be found in me.