And the Compositor said, fingers clutching
Inky slugs of lead, You will not notice this,
Will not, not this, not us, not this, you will
Not notice what you missed, this what no
Longer can be printed to exist, you will not
Dote on this, dance to this, will not dash
Dash whistle down by the banks of thistles
In the disintegrating ranks of this, notice
Not us, can't save us, can't save this, notice
This. He spun on one heel and fell in a heap,
And the moveable type flew out of his hands
And into the inky black, silver-mined stream.
You will not have, however, noticed this.
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