the curse of the queuing beast
is to ever be standing in line
nose to rump, with its ilk
shopping for sardines, unless
stepping out after a carton of milk
eyeing off others of its kind with such glee
this specimen of ignoble mediocrity
will race down aisle after aisle
in fluorescent-lit purgatory, perpetually
eschewing the freedom of walking the green mile
bepimpled persons of origin unknown
why act you thus, have you no homes?
clog not the arteries of commerce and trade
indeed remove thy ample-sized footprints forthwith
lest i find due cause to be solely one more in thy midst!