Not In My Time Space Reality

TheMagicRealist.com

To the scientist centered in flat earth and Mars
The Big Bang occurs everywhere all in a flash.
Everywhere outside galaxies expands  in size.
This prolific phenomenon speaks through our sighs.
What’s outside this expanding is anyone’s hash.
What else could exist but space, planets and stars?

Now, the answer to that is a thing we call time.
It’s the fourth quad-dimensional piece of the pie.
Altogether, reality’s clear to perceive.
My perceiving is knowing in what I believe.
My wisdom comes partly from what’s in the sky
And the rest from attempting to make verses rhyme.

If I did have you fooled for a while, I’ve done well.
It’s my pleasure to do so for science’s sake.
Reality’s boring. It must be made fun.
I’m the son-of-a-gunest that’s under this sun.
Not that science is useless… That thought’s a mistake.
Now that this poem is finished, there’s no more to tell.

What Gives Us the Ass?

TheMagicRealist.com

This Ass we’ve been given… this judgment we hold
Toward those nations we feel that aren’t grown up enough
To develop big toys and display their might…
Who has given us right to tell others what’s right?
We are like stubborn children who like to play rough
With strategic mind warfare. This story gets old.

Some old kid on the playground is acting the fool
Like an overstuffed time bomb that’s ready to burst?
Why we pay such attention and crave being tense
Is the same as why others create such events
That then get nations talking and fearing the worst.
The mind of the ne’er-do-well is a fine tool.

Such is life during recess… No teachers in sight…
We have no playground monitors watching our deeds.
And our toys are quite dangerous; our threats are a bluff.
Are we players who know when enough is enough?
Not a player is crazy so no one proceeds
Down the ultimate rabbit hole without a fight.

We Know Stuff Already

TheMagicRealist.com

Hey, we know stuff already, though new in the house
With our feather still soggy from compacted space.
We don’t have complex brains nor chick self-help degrees.
We’re pre-programmed with guidance; we’ve no need for knees.
Such tools are for hoping and praying for grace
And for nurturing thoughtforms in line with the louse.

Our mother, herself, had no mom to look to.
She did hatch in captivity… nursed by machine
Yet, she knew how to raise us. All mothers know how
To tune in to what’s natural, indeed, with the Tao.
She scratched for us lovingly; then she got mean
Just to teach us a valuable lesson she knew.

Our dad is cool also, raised just like his mate.
He’s the one who said, “Dear, lay our eggs over here
Where those humans won’t find them and snatch them from us.
I will bring you your meals, so don’t put up a fuss.
When our babies arrive, they will live without fear.”

So, take it from us; inner guidance is great!

Rock Paper Scissors

TheMagicRealist.com

Black Lives – That’s a matter pertaining to me
Just the same as it did half a century ago
When the fear was the white-hooded witches let loose
Wreaking havoc and living by way of the noose
And the lynching and bombings and crimes we don’t know
So, perhaps my believing is now what I see.

There were stereos then, also stereotypes.
Both were loud and obnoxious and prone to the brawl.
There were also those games that are played even now
Where the zero-sum outcomes are preplanned somehow
And uneasiness comes with the sound of a drawl.
Ornate stained glass ceilings have turned to crack pipes.

There is usually a winner and rarely a tie.
We know one beats another in circular chase.
Stiff black Russian roulette can be served over ice.
Black blood does bleed red. This one fact should suffice.
The gears keep on meshing. It’s all about race.
I don’t bark at the bugbear; I know I might die!

Ego: Mirror of the Horse

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t mind my beast. I’m a bastard today.
I’ve a bit of the bitters; that’s just how things are.
Some government worker said I cannot vote?
When the system is screwed I become the scapegoat.
I become wild and crazy with outburst bizarre
And it seems I’m the ogre; their system’s OK.

Says the system that I voted elsewhere today.
It’s a cock sucking lie! I don’t care what it shows!
I’m a flesh and blood human. I don’t understand
How they bow to machine and give me the back hand.
Maybe government workers are robots… who knows?
Yet, if I am to vote, I must do it their way.

I’m ashamed of the way that I acted today.
I had no idea there’d be an exam.
I feel much like a horse someone’s trying to break.
If I bask in my wildness, is that a mistake?
I’m prepared for the next test. I won’t have to cram.
This damned horse is exhausted with no more to say.

Gated Community Logic

TheMagicRealist.com

The community’s gated. Just what does that mean?
Simply, zeros and ones must be put through the test
To determine what gates they have passed through by now.
By endorsing their circuitry’s past they allow
Just the best of the best; in fact, screw all the rest.
God bless those who know how to keep a yard clean.

As we’re mated and fated through life we assume
That our truth table’s flawless like digital flush.
We are OR’ed and/or NOT’ed, determined by creed
Then Exclusive OR gated, then sorted by breed.
When we miss a clock cycle, we’re quite prone to blush.
I must hire a workforce who’s good with a broom.

It is quiet as hell here. There isn’t much crime.
The streets of doped silicon melt winter snow.
There’s a path to corruption through bi-stable states.
There’s agreement about what a good member hates.
We have one foot substrated in earth ground below
And the other one striving to monetize time.

I’m Not Here To FIX Anything

TheMagicRealist.com

Like the Maytag repairman, I came with some tools
And some skills and a passion to find things to fix.
I like breaking things down and then building things up.
If it weren’t for my tasks, I’d be such a sick pup.
I don’t run for office, nor do politics
And perhaps that’s what separates me from most fools.

That would not be the case, though, had I not been told
I’m not here to fix anything. Nothing is broke.
Things are constantly changing and expanding so
There is constant renewal and much room to grow.
So, so much for my fixing; I’m best to unyoke
My life from such missions that make one grow old.

Find release from all struggle and seek to have fun.
Find joy, and in doing so one will align
With the fantastic, expanding rhythm of being
In a universe made for believing and seeing
Wherein any problem will work out just fine.
I’m not here to fix anything under the sun.

Art of the Autist

TheMagicRealist.com

The Autists are coming. Indeed, they are here.
They’ve been teaching among us for decades by now.
I am proud they are with us. They’ve nothing to hide.
I’d intended to be one myself, but I died
From my wounds incurred wrongly by default somehow.
I am social, somewhat, and that’s my greatest fear.

Where the stronger the Autist from birth through ‘til grown
The more God’s protection is given because
Those who can’t be adjusted or harmed into place
Show that love, unconditional, all should embrace.
It is clear our conditioning should take a pause.
It is wiser, perhaps, to just leave them alone.

It’s funny how society says something’s wrong
As they look for a cause as if it’s some disease:
Too much crap in the water, folks, let’s tone it down.
Too severely they’re happy. We must make them frown.”

We’ve the right to let others do well as they please.
It’s a massive inclusiverse where all belong.

Near Perfect Nonsense

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve a fond sense for nonsense that’s naturally pure.
If one strives for perfection, it’s always the case
That when foolishness fettered, then nurtured the same
Will recover in time to return to the game
Of living life loony. How goony the space
Of nonsensical numskulls with mirth to endure.

It may be nothing’s perfect in terms of nonsense.
Many pieces of silly must fall into place
So they dance about smartly in demented minds.
I’ve a fondness for jokesters. God bless their behinds.
I would be one if not already the case.
So much humor and laughter and fun I’d dispense.

Progress is perfection in some people’s hearts
And a verb is a noun just because it’s a word.
A fun clock is a camera; its film is the soul.
There’s no need for development; that’s not the goal.
Take your time from the hippo instead of the bird.
It is how we make peace before war ever starts.

Conjugation of Daho

TheMagicRealist.com

Daho was a state of the union one time.
It took pride in infinitive providence such
That its residents felt everything was just fine
Until when they realized a better design
To include all the attributes grammar likes much
All to exhibit representation sublime

A verb does have voice. It also has mood.
And on good days a good verb will sing a good song
So we know what on bad days a bad verb will do.
Don’t give a verb guff; it will predicate you
To whatever it’s feeling. Don’t make it feel wrong.
Any verb can get nasty and treat a dude rude.

Now, back to the case of Daho. As we know
To live now and to dream of tomorrow come past
Does make a verb tense, and Dahoans as well
So they came up with number and person to tell
All the nation Dahoans don’t do things half assed.
It’s a state now where grammar fanatics can go.

So, there’s Idaho, Youdaho; He, She and Itdahos.
That’s on the west side where singulars stay.
On the east side there’s Wedaho; Theydaho too.
Since they’re plural, they get along well with the You.
It was back in the day when Dahoans had sway
Until conquered by gerunds with will to transpose.

Lesson Review

TheMagicRealist.com

…Let’s begin this again; There Is Nothing Wrong Here.
Have I learned much too little from practicing life?
There is meant to be contrast; I like it that way
But upon my arrival, I speak of foul play.
To the beat of the drum and the trill of the fife
I must keep my thoughts focused on good will and cheer.

I am, and I know it, a fountain of speech
And since given this work I must see its way through
But should I stick to comedy and push aside
The more tragic components of life? I confide
In the wisdom of Inner Source who guides me to
The wellbeing I well deserve well within reach.

To be is to be and to not is to not.
I should emulate either or both as they are.
Who should give a rat’s ass about what’s up with me?
That’s perhaps not the issue. It’s simply to be.
When the task is just being, one’s mood ascends far
Into places where chronic dis-ease is forgot.

Verbal Plutocracy

TheMagicRealist.com

…I can’t use the word ‘android.’ It’s now just a name
Like so many unwary words hijacked these days.
If I use it, I risk myself being mistook
And whenever that happens, I seem like a crook.
Forget about ‘robots’ assuming our ways.
It has happened already. We’re hot in this game.

Some boy said ‘google’ one day on the floor.
‘Twas not even a word but has rolled into fame.
It’s grown moss on its own to the point where it’s now
The most baby-like utterance that we allow.
I applaud the fine youngster for making a name
For himself and for masses of others and more.

But I also commend the sharp critic in me
For observing how language can market its parts
And how war against structure continues despite
Futile efforts to stop it. So, does it seem right
That our words become ransom for few greedy hearts?
How immune to disaster must words have to be?

Reintarnation

TheMagicRealist.com

Does this count as a life? I don’t care either way
But only in terms of the marrow and bone.
There’s too much going on; there is thickening air.
If the purpose of life is to love and to share,
Have I done much of either? I quest on my own
To unravel life’s mystery day after day.

This life I am given may be near its end.
What manner of taste does it leave in the heart?
I don’t care that I’m going; it bothers me not.
It is where that I’m going that soothes me a lot.
I just hope I don’t have to come back and then start
A whole new exposure to re-comprehend.

This world is a trip. Any creature would say.
And it ain’t like I’m troubled or deeply depressed.
I’ve just seen enough traffic on these busy streets.
I behold mass congestion’s miraculous feats
And I come to concluding that I should invest
In a starship where I would just then warp away.

Vacating Vacating

TheMagicRealist.com

We could visit the spot where old Humpty dumped
Or the land where first creatures first pissed in the breeze.
We could scale the vast, mountainous, rock hardened dick.
We could watch it erupt and be covered in thick
Molten mayhem. We could live what common man sees.
Let’s begin our vacating, folks. I’m really pumped!

What could be more deserving of travelers to be
Than to map a vacation from end until start
With every detail most recursively planned
So that all in the family will well understand
That vacating is not a pure science, but art
And the spaces we visit may well set us free.

We could Hip Hip Hurrah and yank doodle in snow
Or act fat, dumb and happy for selfie stick’s sake.
But wait – Where we’ll end up in time is right here.
We could cancel our plans and then live without fear.
We’d avoid any chance of mistakes we might make.
Since we’ll be here right after vacating, why go?

Succeeding at Joy

TheMagicRealist.com

I hear joy is the product of drive and success
Where the drive is pure energy shaped by the mind.
The amount of the joy I let myself feel
Is a strong indicator success is for real.
This mantra math formula’s method is kind.
When I’m feeling my best, I’ve much love to express.

I do write about joy, and then, about pain
Not to give one a tour of emotional scale
But to leave fossil records in deep neural folds
In the cortex of consciousness. Nature beholds
That when I feel good I am best to avail
My soul of life’s treasures. There’s so much to gain.

The allowing of joy into life is the key
Though it’s oft’ better said than is actually done.
The trick is in tracking each moment with care
Being conscious of feeling and being aware
Of whatever’s uplifting and constitutes fun.
The equation is sound. Is that easy to see?

Don’t Fuck With Me, Nigger!

TheMagicRealist.com

Pump-a-Boooom! Pump-a-Boooom! What a plague to describe!
That rumble is distant yet headed this way.
There’s no denying that message is Force
And it’s done to disrupt my wellbeing, of course.
It’s on me to unravel this sick nigger play
And it baffles me so that we’re of the same tribe.

That Boooom becomes rattle, sustained to the max
As it draws ever closer, disturbing my space.
It’s riveting shock waves rip right through my heart.
You have mouths full of venom. I DO NOT take part
In the trashing of woman and verbal disgrace.
Pull your pants up, sound weapon; it’s time to relax.

When war comes to me, I don’t see it as race.
We are all sorely human, obsessed with our ways
Of extruding our phlegm from our psychotic clouds.
If you want your dick sucked, then go find the right crowds.
I’ve no need for your nodules of nebulous haze.
Get your pimping assed homies to cum in your face.

I don’t care who you’re talking to, boy. It ain’t me!
Keep your Noise to yourself and don’t shove me around.
I’ve a hair up my own; I don’t need yours as well.
There’s a place for your talent: With Poets In Hell.
I would hang you myself or else keep you well bound.
Am I proud we are brothers? I’d rather be Free.

Mirrors of Perversion

TheMagicRealist.com

‘If we don’t study past events, we’ll repeat them.’
Now, that kind of Jed Clampett logic begets
Every manner of discord and personal strife.
We can learn from mistakes but not make that our life.
We regurgitate sorrow and brand our regrets
Then we brainwash the young ones – it’s they we condemn.

What to think of a woman’s miraculous meat
Since there’s substance attached and a spirit within?
Some men think it’s a menace; it ties the world down.
Any man who supports it must be nature’s clown.
Any woman who speaks out commits a grave sin.
Although physically real, we are thoughtforms in heat.

Before calling one crazy, it’s good to ensure
That one’s own funhouse mirror is spotless and clean.
We are creatures who speak about God, then we kill
In the name of His Love, then we call that free will?
Our perversions are manifold and clearly seen
Through the eyes of our shadows whose sight is yet pure.

Boomers Bused

TheMagicRealist.com

Someone said that it’s my fault the word is a mess
And that I’m the one who’s been sucking up air
With my head held up high in a narcissist cloud
And with all in my age group fat, happy and proud.
With no thought of tomorrow, we live without care
As we trickle down deep concern to all the rest?

I’ll consider that verdict and treat it as such.
It seems I’m a tower of guilt anyway
By the theory I’ve chosen my home upon earth
To stir up much mayhem beginning at birth.
I have lived a good life and don’t have much to say
About others around, so I’m cold to the touch?

Perceptions are many; I’ve said this before.
It’s a pleasure to catch them and put them to words.
I take comfort in my choosing not going there.
I heed the heart’s warning, “Dear writer, beware!”
I’ve no will to defend myself; that’s for the birds.
Way before our departure, we’ll even the score.

What To Do With This Day

TheMagicRealist.com

What to do with this day… I don’t work anymore.
I do have a job, though, and that’s to stay sane.
So I do that by making sure I’m thinking right
And by moving this body from sunrise ‘til night.
Put a shark in a jet stream and give it a brain –
That’s a screenshot of me focused dead to the core.

In a fishbowl where I alone circle around
Searching high and low for something novel to do,
I often find things I had prior misplaced
Then I take to rejoicing; I’m no longer faced
With believing those things were just gone without clue.
I am grateful for things that today will be found.

I will start this day off as I usually do
Feeling grateful I’m kicking and feeling at all.
Then I’ll get settled, comfy, with mint tea in hand
And embellish the wordsmith whose labor is grand.
My life, like my poetry, may seem banal
But it does keep me going and loving it too!

Belief in the Backdrop of Reality

TheMagicRealist.com

If I didn’t believe you, I wouldn’t be here
In this space-time enigma where I must exist.
You say I’m a flesh and blood body with soul
On a spinning rock, tiny, yet part of the whole
Of a vast inter-multiverse?  Need I enlist
My momentum of being, lest I disappear?

If I must believe something, there’s so much to choose
Of the myriad methods the mind has evolved
Just to ratify meaning where all may agree
That perceptions are billion-fold just as are we.
There’s no sign that this puzzle will ever be solved.
When I’m down the right rabbit hole, I’ll know the clues.

We’re devices with software that’s called our O.S.
Our programmed belief systems process the clues
Through arithmetic logic, machine cycled clean
So that all system users can never be seen
All at once.  If that happened, then all would refuse
To believe much in anything – Then, what a mess!

A Most Literal M

TheMagicRealist.com

M could be for Matter. We’re all made of some.
It’s a consonant catered to personal glee
That could mean any number of beautiful things.
It’s the essence of M-ing for which the heart sings
When a detour through eye level leads to the sea
And momentum ensues like the beat of a drum.

M could stand for Messy or Menses the noun
As the mind mingles meaning, malfunction and more
In attempt to decipher why nature must play
In promoting such urges that cause due dismay
For those of a flavor not prone to ignore
That magnificent manhole just south of the mound.

One may wax anti-lingual and labor the view
Of the sequitur logic against sucking face
With another one, hairy, of mucous and warm.
Nature caters, in time, to what’s not the norm.
Why is man sloshing sultry beset with disgrace?
When it comes to linguistics, is M good for you?

I must think of that M just as if it were me
Since we’re most made of microbes; from mother they came.
Could it be that when nature finds man in a rut
She gives the command, “Get Good Guys in your Gut!”
To help out with digestive health just the same
As the flower most surely gets help from the bee?

Barking Trees In the Forest

TheMagicRealist.com

Now the dogs are all barking. It’s seven a.m.
And the kids are out romping around the car port.
They are ready to load up and get off to school.
Yet the dogs are still barking. Perhaps it’s the rule
In the forest where barking trees oft’ come up short
Of attention from humans… Such pity for them.

The children are free, though they’re taxied the same.
And they ramble on doggedly nipping the ears
Of their own, chatter boxing as hard as they can.
They get full response for the slightest demand.
But the dogs are still barking. Should I be in tears?
I’m the stark rabid neighbor who harbors no blame.

It is closer to eight, now; their pleading has ceased.
These bastions of bark, having finished their trial,
Will begin once again as the children return.
If they barked for a living, what fortune they earn!
Dogs have voices like timber that grow for a while
Then fall flat in the forest where heard not the least.

Every Good Printer Should Wipe Its Own Head

TheMagicRealist.com

Every t that’s electric should cross itself well
Just as socks unattended should stay decent pairs.
Every printer that prints other than in 3D
Has a head that needs wiping.  Its will is to be
Of its own clear volition, effecting repairs
Of its own fettered systems so balance can dwell.

Every i that is manual has had its day
Now the age of blue-toothing and why-fi is come.
Someday soon a device will have nary a button.
There’ll be so much to love for the technophile glutton.
Every i that exists will have class – not just some.
They will dot one another without much delay.

I’ve managed two printers. My one is a girl.
She presents not a problem when I am offline.
But the other’s a jerkoff who laughs in my face.
It thinks I’m the bozo; I’m prone to disgrace
As it sounds off to me. I concur with its whine
Every time there’s a mis-feed I’m made to unfurl.

Do I Make Myself Clear?

TheMagicRealist.com

Do I make myself clear? What a question to ask
Of someone not even of scientist mind.
I am sorry, Ron Hubbard, this ain’t about you.
My notion of clarity has much to do
Not with others’ perceptions and mine intertwined
But with certainty that my speech performs well its task.

Do I make myself clear? I’m not sure that I do.
Sometimes words escape meaning and thought fades away.
I don’t speak just whatever comes into my mind.
It’s the process of living among humankind
That evokes from within me what then I must say.
Though I seem partly cloudy, my sky’s nothing new.

Any poet who’s ever made home upon earth
Has had ample reason to write through the heart.
Every creature that speaks or lets loose with a cry
Should have something to say that would brighten the eye
Of its bated beholder who’s state of the art
In its skill at perceiving and discerning worth.

Coon Cranny

TheMagicRealist.com

I do have a coon cranny. What’s up there these days
May be of some interest to those hating blacks.
After all, since it’s up there, let’s talk about why.
When a coon has a hair, it is hard to deny.
When my speech gets grotesque, it’s not substance it lacks
And the smell of wet chicken flesh tends to abrase.

We are quite the bald eagle. Its right wing is right
In its hatred of niggers. There’s still ‘civil’ war.
When black folks see my talent, they swear that I’m white
Yet when whites view my work I’m ignored out of spite.
There’s a thing about hatred my soul does adore.
When I’m pushed to a limit, my black ass will fight!

What a mess has been made. This is ugly, dark shit
From the pit of a toilet marked ‘colored’ somewhere
Live on stage in a Twilight Zone plantation scene.
Don’t forget, I’m a nigger; I’m born to talk mean.
My job is to ‘nig’ and give white folks a scare.
If you think I am truthful, then you’re the nitwit.

Rat Back Retriever

TheMagicRealist.com

There isn’t a Rat Back Retriever in town
So we’re here to apply to the mayor in you.
Resting proud on the back of my big purple rat,
I am sure most retrievers must know where it’s at.
What I do is I chase Cheshire cats upon cue.
With my big assed rat side kick, we ride ‘til sundown.

There isn’t a fever that one could display
That would right itself smartly, not yielding to aid.
But a Rat Back Retriever can heal with a glance
And if things are quite critical, we’ll sing and dance
To any tune practiced and very well played.
Though we’ve lost track of meaning, there’s still much to say.

If you’re a believer, do know this is true:
There will always be room in your heart for a rat.
Make sure that rat’s healthy and has a keen mind
So to any retriever he’s easy to find.
One may think one may have healthy living down pat
But the Rat Back Retriever will sanctify you.

System Resets

TheMagicRealist.com

I see this new day as a positive thing.
It’s a brand-new beginning. It’s never too late
To embrace the new day and to nourish it well.
Today can’t be yesterday if now you dwell
In the now where your power and focus are great.
It’s my pleasure to ponder what this day may bring.

Our today and tomorrow can be different from
Our yesterday, journaled so well in the heart
If only we focus on what’s up today.
Letting go of what’s happened will clear a pathway
Toward giving your living a healthy new start.
Every outlook that’s pure yields a pleasant outcome.

Today, and that after, proceed from the now
The vibration of which we have complete control.
I must look for some things that I feel good about
Then kick back and enjoy how my life turns out.
Vibration comes forth from the pit of the soul.
There’s no time like the present for learning just how.

A Tasty Smidgen of Every Religion

TheMagicRealist.com

I do bless and appreciate all the world’s ways
Of giving our praise to that which we believe
Created all being. What seeing we share
As there’s much more in common that all can compare.
We are chefs in the making prepared to receive
All ingredients needed to feed our mores.

One’s connection to God is a personal thing.
And sometimes our religioning taxes that bond.
Get aligned by yourself, and then you be the light
That shines through your own faith. Your brightness just might
Keep your brethren in unity through the beyond
So that your team takes credit for grace’s wellspring.

It’s God’s kitchen. There’s something for everyone here.
He would certainly keep His own pantry well stocked
For all cooks of the world to have room to prepare
Our fine meals of diversity garnished with prayer.
Our souls have emerged with the urge to concoct
To our full heart’s abandon with motive sincere.

Order Disorder

TheMagicRealist.com

Now, remember our lesson from yesterday.
Obsessive Compulsive type folks were discussed.
Do recall, they are fidgety, fickle and mean.
And besides all of that, they are not very keen
On behaviors like loving and learning to trust.
So we label them psycho’s, and that’s our best way.

Today, let us talk about people who get
So much out of living they lead tidy lives.
These sick ones, so proper with neatly combed hair,
Have a thing about order. One could easily compare
Their minds to most elegant virtual archives.
But take some more notes, class, we’re not finished yet.

Though there’s Order Disorder, that isn’t so bad.
But Disorder Disorder is more chronic still.
If you practice disorder so much to the point
Where the only relief is a toke on a joint,
Know disorder is only an act of free will.
Not knowing would cause most of us to go mad.

Big Break Theory

TheMagicRealist.com

We all need a break, and a big one is best.
This one that has lasted for trillions of years
Is the biggest on record. There’s good reason why
Rocket scientists keep their hopes trained toward the sky.
Any hope of collision could banish our fears
Of trajectories randomized, crooked or stressed.

If we call it a bang, that sounds violent as hell
And it ain’t all that accurate, so say the ones
That a bang did occur. What they actually meant
Is that space in itself is an omni-event.
Expansion is lethal. Within it are tons
Of the opportune wonders we cherish so well.

It’s a billiard game started long time ago.
The players are we who come forth and emerge
Into glorious being, and then fade away
To our welcoming pockets with not a delay
The game has just started. We’re well on the verge
Of pursuit of the eight ball. This too we should know.