What centaur dareth venture west? What fitness maiden loth?
What mad pursuit? What dingerly duty?
What moose and timbrel? What wild taters mashed?
Heard deals of dealing are so deals, the piping quartet beckons
Are sweeter; therefore, ye big dongs, sock on;
Not for the fair of the stomach, but placid of minded online,
Bellow to the backrow creatures of the deep:
Boyhood faded, beneath the lights, thou shalth rip four more
Thy Baha Men, nor reference page be cursed with six hundred nine and six;
Bold knocker, never, never canst thou mirror kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
700 cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and slamaramadingongzananza be fair
Ah, happy, happy green fields! That cannot shed
Your biggie bops, seeking round, bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy apex himbo, unwearied and unburdened
For four more moonshots, ever new. . . .
(Authors Note: this is *heavily* borrowed from Keats’s Ode to a Grecian Urn. Felt whimsical may delete later. Alex, my LinkedIn Invitation is waiting, let’s talk Deals.)