by Gideon Burton
The merit of those badges and awards,
the virtues of the campouts and the dirt,
the reason BSA gets my support,
is not because I like a khaki shirt.
Oh no, I am a critic of the cult:
its rituals, its silliness, its lore;
its campy camps, the way it warps adults,
its fundraising -- we pay and pay some more.
And yet, my sons go out among the trees,
they hike and stroke canoes across a lake.
Testosterone is tempered by degrees
despite the whoopee cushion world they make.
So, let them stone the gophers, burn their socks;
Unplugged and exercising: scouting rocks.
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