Man was only happy if and when unconscious. In any other state did he grow bilious
once the pleasure of once was passed before he knew he'd have to pull his weight to get it to renew.
The moment he beset God's green Earth and pastures did begin the days of never-ending raptures
til the time of today, in which, no less confused than the day of olden when for thirst he abused,
man's gloom plays the same tune on modern instruments with the same base concerns to the same sentiments.
The lover's progress done once all poetry's read, his heart is still of moan and his brain's pain of lead,
with always something new, but so infinitely far away from the truth's impossibility.
The world was way too big; still, now, it is immense, too much accessible to men of common sense
who would be better off making nothing of it than having ignorance always there to afflict
their limited sight in the world they chose to rule, those forefathers of theirs, who built ship, gun, and school
for no discernably obvious grand purpose than to erect above the all-piling carcass
that preceded our kind and which we shall soon join once Nature's wiped us out with a toss of a coin.
Oh! That modern woman and man needed not bear responsibility for existential scare
which they owe to their bliss as the planet's top race as nothing prevents it to bedie and debase!
Ah! Ah. Eh.
Ah! Ah. Eh. It's alright.
No, like, for real, it's fine. I've done what I had do and now is gone my whine. The postmodern human is not so badly off: their valid plight they can just as easily scoff.