Will I be reconciled
with my sycophantic horde?
They must be bored with me:
I've had too much to think.
Really, it was all bullshit
shenanigans forced through that
differential engine in my noggin
on punch cards spit back out
with a stamp bearing "Moneta,"
the Admonisher, married to
Mnemosyne, who remembers
what you did last summer.
They, scissor sisters
and munchers around the box
consist of a hive of animalcules
whose canto to my respondu screams,
"Interloper! Usurper!
We have trapped you, wild bull,
though it was another
in our cupboard --
"Perhaps a raccoon,"
offered the fair-haired
squirrel to the wall.
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