Dismal Delights

I harbour no wish to deny
that I am a bigot; there, it's said.
People distinguish themselves
by their choices, their values,
their priorities and I admit to
standing in judgement, viscerally.
Those acquaintances who
proudly offer as a conversational
symbol of their cultural idiocy
an appreciation of Disneyland
fall precipitously a dozen notches
in my personal estimation,
incurring from me an immediate
re-assessment of their intelligence
quotient. That casual revelation
spurs within me a deep-seated sorrow
at the unfortunate limitations of
those who enthuse at the pleasures
to be had in exposure to an artificial
landscape of arrested childhood,
where lingering provides one with
an automatic investment in 
perpetual youth. So many are so
anxious to drink deeply from that
Disney fountain who would not
dream of venturing into nature's 
unadorned realm. As to those
unspeakable acts of child abuse,
exposing children to a life-long
lust for that magical kingdom of
commerce, they are guilty of
abandoning another generation to
undiscriminating artificiality,
boldly and unblushingly posing
as a life-ambition well realized.