I sense the ending, lack the script,
A familiar story’s meaning stripp’d,
Of what and when and who and how
Whatever, I want the ending now.
I go to shows and realize
The makers of them do despise
Their customers; ’tis crystal clear
Mammon not art, is worshipp’d here.
But have I miss’d a salient point?
Got it wrong, destroy’d the joint?
Confounded meaning with the clear
Unconscious cause of being here?
Art is always doomed to flunk.
From highest brow to utter junk,
Through countless, low, fun-free travails
To rare, derided, epic fails
And as with life, it seems to be
A proof of our humanity,
Through dark and shattered glass ’tis clear
In truth we mattered; we were here.
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