.
.
Yet how will this play, this two-degree waltz?
Reports that we're fine slight sounding of schmaltz?
Will we make short work of that lame first degree,
Just to be told -- whoops! -- the number was three?
.
When the New York subway turns submarine,
And taxis turn gondola, the ground floor eighteen,
And the great Midwest with sleek sand dunes fills,
Will we all then be told to head for the hills?
.
No, I think we'll be told to stay in our seats,
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