Surge
No way. This is not an invasion.
It's only a piece of incursion.
This poem is no condemnation.
It's only a rhyming aspersion.
This is not really an hour:
It's 59 minutes and secs.
This isn't a question of power,
But a system of balance and checks.
This isn't high-level planning –
It's a concatenation of whims.
That isn't a body you're tanning,
But a random collection of limbs.
This isn't actually language.
It's a passage of tidderly-pom.
And that was an innocent bang which
Destroyed you. It wasn't a bomb.
This increase is just a reduction,
This black is a dark shade of grey.
A highway that leads to destruction?
No, it's just the American way.
