A revelry was had. The chair came to pieces.
A miniature trapeze was confiscated
as well as a kilo of sassafras allegedly for soup.
What a chance to perfect our loutishness
with maximum suavity. We even truncated a few
humans. And what else could we do?
They were real scum, using popular science
to spank the glitch. We hate to cut the life of
the story but they were stealing the sense of gun
safety out from under us. Bloody boots aside,
look at the damage, the proliferation of
adverbs on terminal lines, a rise
in alcoholics drinking the blue sky.
For the proof, what else do we need?
[This poem is from from The Fall of Because (c 1999), which can be ordered at http://www.puddinghouse.com/pub-guide.htm .]