I have to believe, someone at NYU
has already claimed a doctorate,
translated into several languages,
with the observation that an un-
intended consequence of the peril-
ously pubic-suspended waistband,
has been an abrupt shortening of
our arms. Suddenly, spending mon-
ey's out of reach, and explains,
of course, the stovepipe gather-
ing of superfluous trousering atop
the Nikes, relying now more stren-
lously than ever, upon the elevat-
ing effect of their aerosol con-
struction. But have restaurants
adapted? Are the tables shrunk, to
accommodate the diminished reach;
has Emily Post been edited, on pas-
sing the salt? Is this new fashion
the root cause, if you will, of
driverless motoring, and has any-
one accounted better for the pro-
liferation of keyboard duets? I
live in the sticks; I could send
you some, bundled and centrally
bound, for urbanity's sake.
But I stray. In a political sys-
tem as responsive as ours, to
a dire urgency of ameliorations
of one kind or other, its branches
will break a discernible sweat on
the project of retaliatory arms,
to close this abysmal gap between
pubic confidence and real security.
(Frame any question martially, and
the whole government is yours).
Calisthening, ever preening, as if
not their fault our tower's leaning.
We find them adopting the same solu-
ion, myriad times, but its glory is
what counts, where sanity's simply
out of reach. Riding with the Turks,
today; a novelty, we'd have to say.
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