Confused I be, waiting here like this, writing and writing forever again.
And writing and writing, I find myself, five seven fourteen ten!
But no, I tell myself, I can't go on like this!
What horrors await me in the confusion will I miss?
No more! I say, and I demand it to be said!
That I have passed beyond the realm of life and become semi-dead!
But if I cry like this then I must be alive, um, yes?
But no, I'm not! I'll die three years before I ever will confess!
Erstwhile the slime may take over the world inside.
But I, yes, I, must find myself, for I have died.
Too bad, they'll doubtless say, he died without a curse.
Stuffed like overbloated trout in some extraterrestrial's purse.
What nonsense! Agack, the light, atrocities, and hell!
This is a story I must never ever tell!
How confusing it must be to read something like this.
How confusing it must be to feel death's evil kiss.
Time to go, my friend, my friend says, the end.
But no! I say! No way! Absolutely not! Don't send--
But I find myself interrupted in the quake of time.
And I swirl infinitely in the whirlpool of rhythms sublime.
(Which is a waste of water, really; it'll be our doom.)
How sad then, I think; in and out we pan and zoom.
And finally we understand, methinks; touché!
What wonderful phases of confusion we'll go through today!
What obvious distractions await us I will never know.
What curious affections disturb us wherever we will go!
With bloated trout in one hand and nothing in the sand.
And yet I find there's something mutating in my hand!
The horror! the horror! Blasphemies divine!
The stench of evil spreads like over-bloated pine!
The horror! Atrocities everywhere I see and always feel!
The slime like dust and irony puncture me like a wheel!
No wonder I babble nonsense like this! Of course!
I find myself sucked into unknown space-time! Infernal force!
But no! I scream, and then I quake! The horror! The dust!
Bespoken of truth, tonight I must wait, I have to, I must.
What now? I ask! What nonsense is this?!!!! Insanity, I say!
Today, I'll go away, and I won't stay, I say, hooray!
What nonsense! What foul atrocities will blaspheme in the mist!
When we lose ourselves like waterfowl on the list!
Well, then, we must accept the blasphemies alive!
The cube of twenty-five square rooted is a hundred twenty-five.
Copyright © 2002 by Decmerion P. Newhamstershire, Esq.