A Sonnet

'Neath his trilby, naught but Euphoria
Reigns.  Beholden to no God or man, he
Sits at the top. From no fight will he flee,
For to run from debate is to be a
Sheep; He'll escape only should he see a
Thot.  He shan't rest until every tendie
Is his.  To be an atheist is to be
Free.  No more, the theist dysphoria.
In daily life, our hero's manner? Mild.
Yet his mother but weeps, cleaning cheetos®
From his tighty whities.  Where is the child
She once loved, now lost, clinging to the throes
Of irony?  Once a boy, now reviled,
For there is nothing he does not oppose.