The immortal head named Ed, far left, said
“Let’s play tag again, and Nobody be It!”
“What would be the point?” replied the snide
middle riddle of a guy named Clyde, who tried
again to look away from their unending ride,
and the skulls of his bro’s in their dull Triumvirate.
Then Dwight, far right, like a frat boy in some
damned eternal Light, broke the dolor. “Color
fight! Come on – let’s all get dyed!” So they rigged
up an ungainly apparatus that would rain down
strains of a permanent stain they prayed (without
a hope) might permeate and dope and then
eradicate their brains, undone by the tedium,
yearning for non-being, desperate for a change.
Oh, if only they were dust! Eternity’s a bust.