The white dwarf sings nostalgically of pasta.
Spittoons regurgitate. Barn swallows fly.
Religious rhymes incorporating ‘rasta’
shunt galaxies. Remaining options die.
Through exits open, first you, and then I,
call the assembled spirits, hoping one
will take it on herself to, just for fun,
perform another rescue. Mushrooms crowd
the senses into sainthood, says the nun.
The white dwarf answers, drugs are not allowed.