Their screams are silent, free of sound, their fates are fickle, market-bound, who tether heart and hope and soul, to present body-frequency. Not much remains but pent-up rage, at king and country, wife and knave, at things far past an easy grasp, at politics – elephant, ass. With scrawls aplenty they do fill, their fleeting time on earthly crust, updating Bob and Jack and Jill, and countless others they mistrust. Now all that's left are silly rhymes and windless talks about old times, all filler-words and fancy -isms, the listeners they droop and nod, they sit down heavy with their pods to reblog sleepy puffball kittens. So all things are proper, and nothing's awry, young hearts they are empty, and old eyes are dry, the talk it will go on, as rightly it should, we'll not sit and judge or choose bad over good, but welcome each syllable, jape dig and jest, we poor foolish humans, we men of the West.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
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