Fighting Tuesday’s boredom,
he decided to play a game
And because he’d never done it,
he decided to test his fame
He mouthed the most nonsensical words,
with imagery askant
Then wrote them down from right to left,
a backward forward rant
To see if then his audience,
could make sense of this ruse
He published in the New York Times,
for readers there to muse
To his surprise they cheered and raved,
and called his name out loud
And said that T.S. Eliot,
from his gravesite would be proud
They found deep meaning in every word,
each rooted as a farce
And saw an abstract Moby ****,
within his dark discourse
With pen in hand he pushed away,
and leaned back in his chair
And scratched his head in wonderment
—at the myth his fame could bear
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)