• Dr. Analog winds his watch. “Sir, it’s almost time.”
    His eyes dripped cheap cologne and sang a serenade of brine.
    We’ll bury Simple Simon
    In a coffin full of diamonds.

    “Sit.”

    Comatose and overdosed to everyone’s delight,
    We’ll embalm him in the hour’s last surveillance of the night
    And read him all his favorite fables
    On the autopsy table.

    “Wait.”

    When his hands begin to shake and his palms began to sweat
    We’ll wrap his throat around his knees and light a cigarette
    And deliver him to the factories
    Of manufactured tragedy.

    “Pull.”

    The lock of his every key is corroded.

    “Pull.”

    The statues of his heroes have eroded.

    “Pull.”

    Funny how he twitches
    When his gun isn’t loaded.

    “Pull.”

    “Pull.”

    “Pull.”

    Oh, the chamber never stops spinning.

    Dr. Analog, sing us to sleep.
    The modern man is a miracle indeed.