A fly joined me for breakfast, and
whispered something rather peculiar in my ear.
He spoke of all, and with great detail
of the World ending with a whimper.
I found myself shocked.
Soft, soft, soft, squeals, of florescent lights
broken in a masquerade of exuberant colors
and the world left in shambles.
Too bad though, for those hollow whispers fade,
and the squeals, are only but squeals: inaudible, helpless.
Buzz, pestering buzz, that squeals, o it bothers me so.
So the end of my newspaper it go.
And splattered over propaganda-spread articles,
lays the truth, bludgered;
a whimper.
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