The sun's always shunning, the moon's always blight,
The stars are growing Chinese every night.
In meadows of disapproved daisys we shoot
To kill, missing stuff which we used to salute.
As midsummer hints at an end to antiques,
Butts fill out and drip with gutteral creaks,
Digital islands all over the plot,
Spin a ciardi stant long overshot,
Straining to qualify, failing to start,
No finale in sight, no desire to take part.
So let's sulk at the scowler, pre-empt any good,
Throw away crazy, preserve all the wood,
Hose down the squirrel from the patio,
Avoid announcing the time to go,
Do it ourselves for invisible mess
Ratchet FML to a new excess.