Ah, tremendous goodness. Without pen n scroll
near it’s ok I say, to the typer
I move, and here I am, so I have said.
my product shimmers before me and it always changes and it’s always not the same,
But by me, declared by I,
I give it up to the infinite typer in the sky,
Who doesn’t even look, not once,
@ me..
What does he or she or them not see?
The bulge of words, the salute to emptiness,
Aren’t I just
doing their work for them?
Aren’t I right? My right? Of my right to be a beast who fights?
For a better way! I’m trying to say…
Decay decay decay is all I can see
But I can’t not believe in things better in today
And yonder don days,
As Future to’s come to pass,
And we grow all stronger, from strength held fast,
Pardon me said the parson, on I go, rhyming again,
After the apology, stands there corrected,
With all due respect looks inside to see,
Nothing rhyming but odd bits of gristle,
Prickling any friends with any tender thistle,
Away with you parson! So tired I’ve grown.
Machines manufacture tiredness, soma efficiently defecates,
And it’s all broken, in a precisely pristine way,
With non-rhymes roll toward an in sight better today