it is not silent it just doesnt spell
blind homer asks the muses nine to tell
his eyes a story of the man between
my eyes and its new ken the nest i preen
whose twigs the man old chap has grown
beneath the watchful skies forever known
it was the day the first day of my life
i ceased to fear the coming afterlife
the clockwork ticks were all that sounds to me
sans wants and needs of petite bourgeoisie