A "lyric"(?) written on IM to the OAF on Occasion of an Insult to her by an Idiot

There is a subtle pulse to things
Precise time insists upon
A steady march of morons, dreams
The impulse to be gone

Also an interred counterpoint
Beating below the ground
Where we meet in unmortised space
But no soul can be found

There all scratching pecking fools
Are pecked and scratched upon
In eternal space, now so confined
Their happy malice gone.