One would have felt equally gypped (and did)
spooling through scripted events disdained
as high-level ordering. Meanwhile,
eggs drop daily from Uncle Ontogeny into
their mystified hens. Sonata,
what do you want from me?
A clearly defined disquiet
messes up that Muzak crushing from sunset
a last drop of cash and flies
away elsewhere to compound.
It’s the subplot not
the encyclopedia drives the spectacular
backfiring machine
whose subroutines end laugh-riotously
epic
and with a snort