The frizble connects to the whatnot,
the whozzis fits under the thing,
don’t ever mistake the doohickey
for the updated technomajing.
Thus is this whatchamacallit
in aperture, appendage, and bloat
an eloquent manifestation
of gibberish with which I am smote.
It’s the shape of my grandchildren’s planet,
a world they inhabit with ease,
conversing in hieroglyphed newspeak,
fluent in emojieese.
Their view of the world is brand new,
just the way that it really should be;
I grudgingly grant I am miffed
that it gets along fine without me.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.