Will fiction ever beat reality Presenting its queen always beautiful? Could it ever neglect to be weighty As it lingers riding on dutiful? Art for art’s sake or a just universe Where a moon can support migrating life No matter its hue or hearse in reverse When death is still being alive for strife. Forget and even fuck most of the past! Yet the now is also painful and dry. If nothing at all is supposed to last It may be wiser to undefine cry. The future can never arrive early Since the past is decorated sparsely.