One grows tired of the infantile, The tamely true, the tritely right. One would rather a slap in the chops, An angry onion intensely teared, A uterine wrong belatedly revealed Among candles at the retirement home-- An explosion under the tea-cozies. Anything, oh anything, mein Gott! Anything but this maundering usual, This placid sunshine square on the floor, This tepid, interminable sequence Of will-be, was, and serenely is. Let some black lightning fork to earth That leaves the sky more mortal, torn.