A small milestone achieved in this high art,
turned street, made rubble, across the spectrum,
different hues of reconstruction that dart,
in and out of time, space, from the rostrum:
That is, I dissert, dissect from a mount
so raised, that I'm really too far to touch,
so hear my words, let the distance amount,
to a gap in space, not life, as such:
Detached parallelism is the name,
and bridging breaks is my bread and butter,
so ask me again, I'll tell you the same,
that life's a joke, and you are the other:
I mean, the butt, the but, who, why and and,
against which I trace my name in the sand.

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