Close to a week ago
An internet was sent to me
At ten o’clock last Friday morn
I did receive it yesterday

Enmired in a clog
Congealed, stuck immovably
Entombed within itself with all
Things going on commercially

Deliver that they must
Our data in immensity
Simply dumping more on top
Would not go over pleasantly

‘Tis not a flatbed, friend
Closer still to tubes in series
And so these tubes, they can be filled
—a state of pure catastrophe

A company exists
Whose work is in delivery
They take you order from the tubes and send selections hastily

Ten movies stream across
Those ducts inert with lethargy
What happens now to internets
To which you’ve claimed propriety?

All plugged with crud and sludge
These pipes are not cleaned easily
Perhaps we ought to call upon
Mustachios in red and green?