Some things are not so subjective:
My father informs me that Hillary

Has killed Vince Foster.

I am seven, mom is reclined

Upon the spine of

Every Gustav Stickley craftsman furnishing--

"Tell your father that he's a bastard, two FOBs

Against his lone Ross Perot."

I want a mechalogical life.

Like the reciprocal devotion of tablespoons,

Readied for all our co-op'ed mouths;

Joint consumption and lacquer's hint of 

Brand new plasticity, to mark

Each and every fluid ounce.

There must be some method to this torque ballad...

Though I--

I am bona fide.

Tonight, I will take-up physics, 

And tomorrow I'll be the harbinger

Of something I have never owned.