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 — on all fours. W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please.  

(This soon after his last breath, is it safe to mention Yeats?) (Maybe not.  
It frightens no one.) Some of us are too profoundly false to save the day.  
Today. Tho not all of us refuse to understand further (to meet up).  
 
It’s natural, a picnic on the bestial floor.  
 
The wilds... on all floors.