I wish that I was requiem.
Table, chair. Instead: PM.
The nobleman sits on his hands
as a band marches past.

There's nothing I would rather do
that just to hang around with you.
Where the hell are you, sergeant?

That special self-aware perspective
which accompanies all self-respecting retrospectives
into the realm of desire.
It's times like these I realize
that in the process of caramelize
I am preaching to the choir.