Why do you circle so,
Over nothing in particular.
Pluck down, shooed away—
Now you’re around again.
Stuck clown, glued pathway—
How you’re bound in vain.
A sweet, sticky spill just yonder,
Won’t you be happiest to visit it,
And vomit for purposeful profit.
Perhaps you aspire to
An early expiration,
Suspecting a tragic inclination,
Detecting something rotten
In the perspiration,
Predicting a not-to-be resignation.