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All the performers are in jail. All the sax players and stumbling sages are breaking rocks chatting with their friends and relations through two inches of glass.
Removed, cleft, incarcerated. Humming and doodling have been outlawed; song, rhyme, and dance no longer interfere with the assembly line's efficiency and America will reclaim the number one standard of living spot.
Unemployment disappears with new positions in bird muzzling and cricket wing amputation. Worry no more of the dangerous quicksand pits; they are filled with guitars and juggling balls.
It's the revenge of the white collar, as critics search the classifieds, their free ride cut short.
Good citizens, you who from time to time felt not ashamed to be considered par of "the audience;" I reach out to you through these cold iron bars to relate this sad truth that came to be realized from the complaints of neighbors who couldn't hear their HBO.
They can hear it now; and they'll be hearing something else: the performers are in jail, their pens and flutes are in their cells, cuffed to toilets, one inch out of reach.
We shall paint with feces, we shall make music with breath, comb and tissue, we shall recite in gasps and farts. Visiting hours are tattooed on the warden's ass.