Going off the handle?
Better to say, gone?
Broke the neck off the bottle,
When you were just trying to
Get the cork off?
Perhaps you twisted too hard,
Slow down & be gentle.
Love isn't a race,
It's a marathon.

A rhyme heard from when he was younger,
For there was a love perverted for the Greeks & Romans.
There was more, but I won't go on.

So theoretically, if one made mass profiles on individual users via telecommunications data, for instance, using cell towers one could seperate individuals on a spectrum of information. By directing cell traffic to specific servers. Put the angry with the angry. Put the suicidal with the suicidal. Even seperate by tax bracket if one wanted. Control the rate of dissemination of any kind of information. Who sees what. When they see it.
You could even craft a narrative for one to follow.
Because now there is machine learning,
And that makes all of this possible.
Obviously, this would have to be done internally by each respective company.
Unless one had a backdoor or "pass-through."

Honor your ancestors, yes?
But some take that to extremes.
Even going so far
As to apply it to themselves,
In the physical sense & mental.
That being the oldest of them,
Instinct & emotion.

For to them the mind is wasted,
For them the body is nothing.
For them the mind is nothing,
For to the body of it is wasted.

In the sense that they are anymore
Man than any other kind of animal,
A concept so tiringly clung to.
So thoroughly discussed is mankind
That its philosophies are disgusting,
Unrecognizably distorted.
Those in actuality & reality,
Cloaked by sick games of telephone.

For to honor pridefulness,
For to shame modesty.
For from pride is derived honor,
For from shame is made modest.

If by death die the lies,
Then execution is the only honesty.
Then dying is the truest mercy.

For therein, what is just?

If in the journey of life
We have neglected to have collected
That of the mind;
If in the path of destiny
We have stalled not to have gathered
That of the soul:
To have connection to nothing,
Free from attachment,
But not to have been liberated.

For three are the siblings.

Yet, thee are siblings;
How shamefully you treat family,
How scornful you are of relatives.
Friends? No!
Acquaintances? Not!
Neighbors? Get lost!
What fields you salt
With crops you allow rot,
Clipping the stems of the spoiled
And smashing in the ripened.

Countless leaves of these branches.

In the boastful, casual manner you portray,
You betray your actual lack of ruthlessness.

The act is a fun game,
But the consequences are heavy.

If no one buys what you're selling,
Suffice to say you're starving.
If it causes greater harm or grief,
Suffice to say you're swinging.

For others yet are playing,
But play not.

For behind many faces hide wide smiles,
By many frames are different the pictures.

Ah - ick coats the tongue.
Agh, let me just lick this up.
Gotta get it off.

If evidence is incrimination,
Then fleeting art is an exoneration.
Like pictures drawn in the sand,
Like lightning turning sand to glass;
As though a constellation were made from a man,
As though a mule became a golden ***.

It was the glen of jabberwocky,
Deep within the twaddle mire.
The gobbledygook was being spewed
By the grand codswallop,
The tripe was drivel
And all manner of blethered haver
Did most piffle & bosh.
The great imperial hooey of guff-phooey
Visited with bunk,
There was to be a festivity of the tommyrot;
On the morrow we would dribble bull
Till the cobblers called tosh, ****, cod,
And said their applesauce.
No malarkey here crosses their fingers,
For all the liars have bellywash
And work the flapdoodle with bunkum & bushwa.
All the poppycocks we laid out
For the celebration of the gibberish,
When mumbo jumbo hung a more,
Low & long.
On the fens of the balderdash,
At the mouth of the babble,
We sang the song of argle-bargle
By our native tongue jargon.

It was first rate flummery
By the standards of the order of palaver,
The prime wheedlers of gab & fanster.

So the freaks who have more alienated themselves,
And as consequence us all,
As though they are royalty
Slander the name of all of Europe;
It's nobility & law,
It's cultures & histories?
Asia and the Africas,
Even those of this same continent?

Where do you hope to go, creatures?

For when, not now if,
You craft for yourself a throne,
We shall pin you to it
And make ourselves a new monument.
There, on the banks of reflection,
You will hear our rally call;
Then you shall fall.

Ad tyrannos calcamus!

Bow to the aspirant? Be defiant!

Quite the to-do of the ado hoo-ha.
Shan't you have forgot,
The place you have come up
Is and forever will be democratic.

If Kings are making a comeback,
Kneel.
Give me the crown
Or I will pick it out of the gutters:
I will pick it off your corpse.

If there's pitch to be made,
Prepare for the tar & feathers.
Prepare for the pikes & pitchforks,
For the oil & torch.

Blockade your birdges, flood your moats,
Ready the given defenses!

If Kings are making a comeback,
I will **** you with pen
And put you to death by the sword.

We will march your head around
After we've torn it off.
We will parade your silly decrees about
After we've ripped them apart.
We will drag your body through town
After we've murdered you.

There we'll leave you
In some famous roundabout,
For the crows to feast;
For the animals to pick you clean.

They will say of you,
"Now he's only skull & crossbones!
I had thought him a royal
But he burned & boiled -
Screamed & soiled,
Just the same as I would!"

Sins of the father, eh?
I only hope you didn't ***** your family
With your crimes & repulsiveness.

Submit to the giant? Slay the tyrant!

O' since it hath been beforehand with our griefs,
Let us pay the time but needful woe.

This England never did and never shall
But when it first did help to wound itself.

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.

Now these her princes are come home again,
And we shall shock them.

Come the three corners of the world in arms;
If England to itself do rest but true,
Nought shall make us rue.




Like you were before,
Slaves ye shall be again.
You shall pay forever in restless labor.

The country will be nothing but a vassalage,
You who stood on the cliff line side-to-side
As our ships sailed by.

Now it is you who are beneath us.

Wait for your gentry men & ladies to return,
We shall be upon them as a tempest.

And our allies will strengthen & back us.
If you simply lay down & submit,

Nothing like us shall bring you ruin.


We took your royalty
And told you we killed him.
Then we killed more of your children.

It's a different kind of life,
A more cruel death.