Look thy worst on all things always,
Lovely, shitty, in-between,
Lovely tending ever fouler,
Fouler growing evergreen,
How Bechet begot Gillespie,
Then shag-bag mobs at their guitars.
Collect your final hugs and kisses,
Strew the hay, reserve a hearse;
Odd, it’s only time for going,
Once you’ve no comfort left in knowing
That every bit as bad as this is,
Each future iteration’s worse.