When people at the airport cry
And hug and look so sad,
I laugh at them, then ponder why
They live to be so drama-clad.
Cothurnus' fit is tight, will squeeze
A flood of tears from head,
Then paracosm god will please
The need to build a phony stead.
That fucker and his fucker friends,
Their volume earns a fee.
Their winged plate, I hope, portends
The knife-cut bones they'll pay to me.
Tyrannosaur of cyborg form,
Should enter to deface, deform,
And toss whatever I like least.