I saw a small boy on a back lot in New York,

Crouched, burning flies alive in a sealed jar

With a magnifying glass he held up high,

Focusing the fire of our companion star.

Dispassionate, like mischievous boys ourselves,

Out in the desert, quarantined, sealed off

From humanity, as if we bore the plague,

Like lepers to the locals, treated rough.

Prometheus pilfered fire from the gods

Hid in a fennel stalk to help mankind;

Which proves the gods at times can be outfoxed

Or even conveniently be stricken blind.

The dawn of a new age or the death of one

— Can blinded prophet or Cassandra tell?

As here we toss this sop to Cerberus,

His three heads barking at the gates of Hell.