So you think you've got a handle on the causes of the scandal
that has tainted half the roster of our guild?
And you think you know the reason why in leaf-removal season
no one weeps to see mass graves get chlorophyll'd?
And you think you've got a fix upon the timing of our dicks
all going limp as pickled tongue?
Well I've got a sinking feeling (though we're floating toward the ceiling)
that a dirge might be most seasonably sung.
By which I mean each autumn we go scraping at the bottom
of the barrel of the reasons left to live.
And to think! The very gall! Now again, as every fall,
the barrel has a stale little reason left to give.
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