Down to verse (1616)

Fed’s Broadway CCXII

Voided entry XVI

I was not one of his, you see,

Was dead to him, a son to be,

This strange Aeneas, Mauberl(e)y,

To see the growing nothing.

Picture it: monthly, weekly, daily

By the fractioned minute.

O Zuckerhulks, 

See the view

From the prow,

The what, the how, 

The viral p-ticklers of it.

I sit my spar.

I think, stink, 

In sheen,

Fouled by such clean.

Daddo’s game:

History keeps coming to us.

https://nypost.com/2020/02/19/mark-zuckerberg-reportedly-gets-his-armpits-blow-dried-before-speeches/