I sit here,
Like a beetle on its back,
In a crack of its own design,
Crafting its own demise,
Frantically flailing,
Panicking mainly—

...until Chad rolls by on an electric scooter.

"Oi, mate!" he shouts,
Toblerone crumbs on his shirt,
flipping me right-side up with a casual shove.
Life isn't death's right-hand man anymore;
it's Chad's co-pilot, cruising on mismatched wheels.

The universe? Doesn't listen to "enough is enough,"
but apparently, it does respond to
"******, this beetle's stuffed!"

Yeah, mate. Guess this in’t the end.
Not with Chad around.