Sonnet 100:

Muse.
We have tangibility subtracting song
— work converted to argument
worthless with little or no honor.

But it adds up. The numbers spoil everywhere, this time
We don’t have to see you
get the job done. You’re faster than time.

We forget that’s why esteemed actuaries went
unmoored. Affection idly vicarious doing what’s graven here.
Vicarious isn’t crooked enough. Fame and skill redeem
any and all fury over what accounts spent,
a despised waste of life as satire, if as not, as the survey avers.