Charity, you asked for that: tact
never a strong point. Consider yourself snubbed
by moral imbeciles, lesser imaginations,
the scale of valuation going right up
to its asymptote. Nobody knows /
everyone knows. Pivot on the bar.
You’re going to be living with yourself,
albeit in separate apartments, the makeshift
partition rattling in wartime Morse.
Steptoe is crushing. Covetousness makes
covenant with itself, renews its vows
each episode. There’s comedy in that.
Tactless but not artless. Some would say
demonic, aggrandizing a minor imp,
mascot of common turpitude. So tell me,
nameless self-accuser, who made you
chief of sinners? Rather a graceless bounder,
hopscotching to perdition across the coals.
Say you have lost, Perdita, a fat pearl;
lost or dissolved in vinegar. Say we
are the dead, as some of us might well be,
no longer credit-worthy; iris scans
to confirm ongoing probate of remainder.
Remind me: where exactly did we leave things?