There is no whispered discontent
When the fruit flies overtake
For shouts and swats of savage rage
At the soaring teeny dots
Become the common language used
By the giants in the room
But here where would the anger be
If not for little flies?
Our human nature damns us to
An ever present stage
Of tiny gripes that grip us strong
And dont free our attention
And so the bitsy buzzers fill
A void so very needed
By keeping all our grumpy bits
From tearing our selves down.
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