Yes, of course, it’s all fucked up.
I was buying you a drink, where were you?
You’re cordially invited to join the Deformed Mutant Noisemakers Brigade.
We’re kin that don’t verify bonds with blood.
We’re a shimmering racket, to be sure:
beleaguered & be-lager-ed yelps,
ludic & ludditic lamentations,
jokes too tired to coerce laughs.
We don’t have a platform;
they got trapdoors anyway.
None of that deus ex machina shit, mate.
No saviors. No brooms.
We’re just whimsical shelters,
beautiful & doomed.