The moon . . . is it smiling? Is it resembling
another source of revenue, another clandestine
twelfth-round pick revolving in the pale light
while reflecting the humanist godhead,
the eschatological saloon, the last chance
we’ll ever have to suck Daisy’s hairy
blonde eyeballs, her succulent vagina.
Liber! Freedom! Freiheit! We will attempt
to provide a “liberal education” to these
musselmen but sadly will pathetically fail.
Concentration camps of the green light,
“the orgastic future” that promises to be lived,
will process anthropomorphic chum in vast
quantities. We might vote this year. Why would
 F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (New York: Scribner, 2002), 180.