my daughters deserve a daguerreotype;
daughters of the quietest mind-
their philosophy matches that
of the finest 19th cent. Gents
and whose morose morals lead the anarchist
internal world to unabashed victory
triumphant horns play
never ceasing, playing their song
a song of short stature
but repeated evermore
signals the triumphant okay-ness
signifies the oncoming entropy
greyscale geniuses grunt
as they
march in melancholy,
moribund but never malignant
crying casually, callously chanting
for the monsters to take hold in the dark,
only to find the dark monster
has had them in her grasp the whole time
the jazzy genius, jesting jubilantly,
with wilting wit, whispers
“wow”