I thought I’d write a dark poem So this is what I propose sowing Wispy tendrils of ethereal thought The kind of thing you can’t be taught In the green woods, hung with ivy
Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy. It all depends on what paper you buy So what do you know? Asks the old man in a suit I know not to talk to you, Says the boy on route.
The more complex the machine, the more likely it is to malfunction. Hobbs sat drawing in a lungful of weed smoke, held it for a second, and then exhaled.