It’s like we’ve said before: earth won’t fluff
its cushions for us, why should heaven?
Idiocy makes for good talk, but
banter alone won’t earn us our keep, that’s true.
A necessary disambiguation
stakes out a gross plot for world pollination.
We’ve had enough of this place.
We’d rather the silver cloths
of somewhere-land, or what this Internet poet
pronounced from the gloom.
We’ll point our noses to the sky, thank you
We don’t need the spoon of
or a bib to catch the dribble of
spittle down our chins.