I met a traveller from a Mormon land,
Who said, A man whose face is made of stone
Stands in the desert....Near him, in the sand,
Half sunk a shattered iPhone lies, alone
With email sig, and haptics for the hand
Whose wielder here, from neon lights, has fled
His lawsuits and attorneys he abhors,
And from the fact that Steve was fucking dead;
And through the wind, rage-spittle soaks the air:
"My name is Russell Greer, the King of Whores;
Look on my plights, my hardships, my despair!
I will avenge you, Dennis Hof, okay!"
No one can hear, or understand, or care.
The lone and lisping tard remains pro se.
