“Mrs. Orientation Video kindly sends her regards, seeing as she couldn’t be here tonight – courtesy of you fine lot not respecting ‘lights out’ regulations and in so doing, losing your holovid privileges for the rest of the day.” Warden Gobelin seemed to grin behind his respirator mask when he swam further down to hook a foot behind the floor rail and steady himself. “Which is a shame, because we arrive at Damocles station in three hours.”
O’Byrne resented the Warden for exactly this type of thing – rather than doing his job keeping the peace, he let things get out of hand and then dared to gloat from behind his pane of impact glass. His penalties for disobedience were nothing more than petty pestering. But O’Byrne be damned if he and the other inmates weren’t fed up with withheld desserts, stupid lights-out rules and now removing any chance of watching a movie for the last time before checking into t

Take your hands off of the torch, sir – slowly
And the keyboard; delete that tweet
Now trending: being sick of complaints
(the problem was Too Long; Didn't Read)
There is no elephant in the chatroom
and they are no pachyderm.
Clean the VR off your goggles
– we might not survive a second term.
Misantropy as an exception,
there's nothing inborn you must hide.
This wasn't about you last time I looked;
you want a parade? Have some pride.

Marigold was being wedded off to this bloke who grew funny-shaped turnips for a living, so naturally the presents had to have that certain je-ne-sais-quoi which a household with this kind of creativity would appreciate.
Ma and Da brought the goat that yee-hawed, festooned with ribbons and artichoke flowers; Peet had dyed a turtle-dove and Tollie, Jen and Mabe all gave knitted kitchenware and farming tool cosies. There was a parsnip rack from Uncle Liam, while Aunt Meary and her husband had just brought themselves which oh, they shouldn't have. Lastly Nan, ever the frugal one, had remembered the bucketful of milk misplaced and retrieved from behind the stack of wood last spring, completely transmogified and strangely aromatic after pondering for so long on what to do with it. After all, one does not simply throw out a whole bucketful of milk, no matter the state - liquid, solid - it happens to be in.
And so they ate it at the feast, and it was delicious.

Hey, wassup my Agamemnon
how does the looting go?
Have the lobbyists settled on
a puppet for the show
when you're the Hellespont police?
How about Helen of Greece?
Fair like Justice
fair like Justice
and δημοκρατία and Peace?
Hey, wassup my Agamemnon?
Does the dear daughter know
Your aircraft-carriers won’t run
Without some bloodflow?
"Can bank accounts become obese
Feeding like grubs off her decease?"!
Can bank accounts
Can bank accounts
Make oil-gorged Θέμις grin at vice?
hey, wassup my Agamemnon?
was your death a surprise?
did you sense that dark pall anon?
did you fail to surmise
it was all greek, your cuckold's fate,
that left you on Charon to wait?
it was all greek,
it was all greek,
when you and Ὀδυσσεύς did prate.