Someone in control has been
"manipulating the utensils" again.

Megan says I deserve it
for dealing with low-lifes.

So I've begun a poem that's
a take-off on Wallace Steven's "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird."

In the meantime, Shakespeare:

They who have the power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who moving others are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow--
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet
The basest weed outbraves his dignity;
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds:
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.