Don’t we have an escalator to take (to meet up)? 
 
Gavel to gavel hours and hours wasted turning the spit.  
What we do converts to personality and stunt-craft.  
What we have to feed on is open discourse W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please.  
(This soon after a last breath, is it safe to mention Yeats?) (Maybe not.  
I frighten no one.) Some of us are too profoundly false to save the day.  
Tho not all of us refuse to understand further (to meet up).  
 
It’s natural, a picnic in the wilderness.  
 
The wilds... on all floors.