A farce, which was this hemophiliac doorbell
stopped in its tracks, that is their blessed glistening
meanness, like tumblers to a toddler
a ritual was something else
nothing, no circumlocution, no zeronones
a one pain above or a waiting design
its a range, it introduced the l to the l
and made its point, systematically
within a chart there is a folder
inside all this and unusual
an echo the ear can't wrap, won't
cling, not unavailable in not selling
not absent and not adorned
the three-legged stool, not unheard
but ill-advised, and often.
As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
-- Shakespeare, "King Lear"
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