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Mr. Week speaks in greek, after a leak
Greetings Mr. Seven-day Week, with you it is good to intersect.
An answer from you, us it would tweak.
Tell us, how did you lose daily fractions, was it from inaction?
Shrinking like drying rice, what will we pay as the price?
Also Mr. Week, people ask me in the street,
Where did the week go?
It just started and already it is Friday.
When, to the week, did they add shortening?
Who cut the measure of leavening?
Furthermore, Mr. Week, people say to me at work,
Where is the week going, there are not enough hours in a day!
So, Mr. Week, did you get jet assist takeoff in May?
Moreover, Mr. Week, people laugh in the bar.
Why, when I was growing up, a week was like an eternity!
But now where is the week’s glow! Is his body mass now low?
Maybe, his indigestion grows, from the media’s buttered crow.
In addition, Mr. Week, do you pause and stumble in every seismic rumble?
Are daily fractions lost in the magnetic shake and crumble?
As people grumble, do the more your numbers tumble and tumble.
Perhaps, we should ourselves on the Earth humble.
Mr. Week’s case: in alpha, beta, gamma.
Alpha. From my seventh-floor tower,
Each level in 24 hours fractions of power
I watch daily, as my foundations sink to omega.
Like time slices, mini splices for sale in a bodega.
Beta. Mr. Week makes his case:
The moon from the cosmic floor slipped her moor.
I find myself now, playing note epsilon, out spacing the score
Missing time, rhythm, orbit and more
Tick, tick, ticks and space galore.
Fractions of the week missing
The cosmic needle silently hissing….
Gamma. Mr. Week’s closing arguments:
The Earth is my phi browser.
Who from sin will defragment her?
So that we may through epsilon window 432 hertz,
Do the dance psi link together and
Vibrate in harmony and, in the true frequency re-tether.
Also, there is matter dark in the ether and, also function theta.
Ms. Moon had secretly lingered. She was unblinkered.
She suddenly said, it would seem English is not his language.
His time and space in the milky way, he must sway and assuage.
Then in a different phase, she seemed the Sun to lightly finagle.
Something about solar flares and wind and, then gamma and glare.
If all of this seemed to be elements rare, Mr. Week to speak, did not dare.
But the question from the Sun, was whether it was a stunt in pun and had she spun it in fun just to, with her light visually stun?
Her photons were like shots from a gun.
But intelligent, they chose the most direct course to run.
Being so smart, straight to the arms of her true love’s heart.
Darts lighting the dark, mark the way back to the start.
Now it is from this part, that we the narrative depart.