Bonjour, all you fancy glitterati --
captain, o my captain, what rhymes with that?
"Enjoy the spinach cheese manicotti."
Away your frets, arsenic laces not --
or -- dramatic pause -- does it? I kid, kid,
for why would I wish you forever rot
seventy-two below this milquetoast earth,
dining fresh on mercurial toxins,
thus to mutant undead you shall give birth!
"What the fuck are you going on about?"
Up north in Canuckland, that's aboot,
as, 'I'm aboot to kick you with a boot.'
"Strainin' to do some postin', ain't ya, bub."
Rub 'a dub dub, alone in my old tub
stormin' cranial waves, fishin' for bits --
"Always Plan B, a picture of some --" cough!
Huge tracts of land is the preferred term, pig.
"That hurts, Dr. Frankie. Now do you see
what happens with a monster-making gig?"
Oh, sob and sackcloth, I've learned my lesson!
Nevermore will I create, nor stimulate --
"Yeah, right." Do you mind, brain? I mean, really.
-- with these needles, threads my TARP scratch bought.
Lightning will be harnessed only for good
such as frying eggs, a slab of bacon,
mayhap some Congressfuckers in their house.
"Not concerned 'bout these violent tendencies?"
Merely fun n' games; look! eyes all around.
But a plea, good sir, how to end this verse?
Something terse, funny, voluptuary?
"Nay, something tried n' true, brimming with blue."
Ah! Supreme melancholy, the rich -- "No!
Like your ideas, big bangs that whimper,
sparks that burst, fizzle, then dull the senses
as Cosmic Candy: flashy then stale --"
What was that bluster about monstrous gigs?
Three reckonings as to what always dies.
"With thanks, so does this post." Amen to that.