THE CAUSTIC BANKRUPTCY
OF A DIGITAL FAKER
Just like Steve Canyon, just like
Parson Weems, I've got nothing for
you but this pestilential dread I carry.
Formed by icicles and dead by
persuasion, I wind up saying
whatever I choose. I was in
Valhalla with those Wotan guys,
and I passed through Northumbria
with a fellow named Charles.
Otherwise, the encyclopedias are
gone, all that you used to own is
over, and even the library cards are
due back in hock. I stopped eating
meatloaf once you buried my clock.
Let's not even sing nice songs about
that. It was a meaningless effort
on the both of our parts.
Here's the final outlay : ten tons of
gravy to pour on all the old wounds
we've carried; those five people in
the den I never had, and the two
Grand Exalted Matrons of your
Sinsiter Lodge for Ladies
In Waiting. I'm through.