Credited miscreants palpitating my algae
Horror box syphoning on another lost child
Meander ponders to the local guard core
And another soda loses its cool.

Yet again, and its thoughtless intonations
Pressing down on a symbol with no acuteness
We’ll make a present to the lost and wish upon a black hole tumbler
To be dead before you recognize
Is that what’s going on, Sam?