Fighting Tuesday’s boredom,
he decided to play a game

And because he’d never done it,
he decided to test his fame

He mouthed the most nonsensical words,
with imagery askant

Then wrote them down from right to left,
a backward forward rant

To see if then his audience,
could make sense of this ruse

He published in the New York Times,
for readers there to muse

To his surprise they cheered and raved,
and called his name out loud

And said that T.S. Eliot,
from his gravesite would be proud

They found deep meaning in every word,
each rooted as a farce

And saw an abstract Moby ****,
within his dark discourse

With pen in hand he pushed away,
and leaned back in his chair

And scratched his head in wonderment
—at the myth his fame could bear

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)