What else is there to write about
that isn’t written yet?
What can I self-ignite about
without precursor’s debt?
Whatever thought there is of death
is in a million odes
and every bard who hath lovèth
from princesses to toads
fills libraries with their dainty sighs
felled forests for their books—
I’d be a fool to follow them;
and have to share their looks.
That’s why I choose to celebrate
the touch screen and the chip…
they’re only known about of late,
that’s how they got to slip
beyond the greedy eye of Shelley
and wiley Shakespeare’s grip.