So skyscrapers tumbled like a logging operation.
Beggars emerged from heretofore unseen alleyways,
coughing tapioca, holding their hands out expectantly.
Dennis, canny as always,
stayed home and played Skyrim.
He called in sick, just to cover his jacksy,
claiming his eyes had turned to molten bronze,
but when he phoned,
there was just calliope music
and the sound of an electric mixer,
beaters slopping through something viscous,
reality unpeeling like an old bandage,
revealing the lesion it was meant to protect.
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