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...
I am bona fide.
Tonight, I will take-up physics,
And tomorrow I'll be the harbinger
Of something I have never owned.