[Incident: 050130-000192]

My hopes were high.
In my way, I emailed the company,
Very hoping, hoping to an extent.
Days passed.
Word on the Rogue STR-1 Pro Electric Sitar Guitar did not come.
Finally, a reply:
The scrambled text and eerie precise wordings of an automaton.
Some darkened geek in a clown suit, cigar ash and piles;
Scribbling keyboard dash to teenagers
Across a pond.

No, they said, we can't give it to you.
Our words were wrong, better still
You read them wrong.
Our words were right.

Redundancy poured over my every thought.
Paths lead away that come to shore;
I look down and see only grit, and the dancing corpse
Of a grimacing Turk who knows what is best for me.

Do I trust the bald words of some crippled figurine?
Yes. Reading them makes me know, once again, and for all maybe,
That to slink back and procrastinate holds best course.