We are well away toward the next of Kay
At thirty-six eight and thirty
And the best of us ain't broke a sweat,
Our hands aren't even dirty.
We could write this stuff in our Sunday best
Or any other day!
So I'm inclined to rest my mind,
About that next of Kay.

But not to rest upon our laurels
Complacent grow, or fat,
I have to ask 'bout thirty nine!
Or the next K. after that!
'Cuz even the best of Moms grow wan
And the fairest are called by Death,
And will this thread go forever on,
While any of us has breath?

Supose we get to Forty Kay?
Where will we go from there?
Will we be posting from our beds,
Weak, and bereft of hair?
Will our walkers take us to the screen
The day before our deaths?
Or Dragon Dictate post our words
In ragged, fading breaths?

Oh, Mom, oh, Mom!
The years march on
The sentence never waived!
In space and time we post our minds,
In lines so well-behaved!
But when our forms return to dust,
There will be a great commotion
As one by one our souls explode
In the boundless BS ocean!

Then will we see the endless depth
And joy beyond confessing
And unify in brightest light
Our rivers of BSing!
Then will we each step from the cage
Of mass and time diurnal,
And joined again, we'll walk the March
of Pure BS Eternal!

Agatha Featherstone Ringblossom III
Hope from the Mother
Barley, Wheate, and Snodgrass
Grosse Pointe, 1932