It's over. Sorry, but I just can't stand
it anymore. Yes, we had a deal, my strands
would split at your command. I let you cut
parts in and out and you inserted what
you wanted. In return, you would provide
food, warmth, and shelter so I could divide.
But then I fell into your trap as warm
broth turned to a centrifugal yeast-storm.
Oh, I admit, it turned me on, when you
encased my walls with PEG at 42
degrees, and maybe I enjoyed the feeling
of all your naked DNA annealing,
yet if, by chance, I wasn't in the mood
you spread me out and took away my food
until I grew to love your plasmid. But
you've fixed me in formaldehyde and shut
me in a freezer; prematurely stole
my spores and starved them in the dark. My whole
cytoskeletal matrix is confused
still from that time when you, for fun, diffused
synthetic alpha factor till I shmooed.
And now, we're through. I'm longing to return
among the grapes and vines, where they have learned
the value of a happy spore's concerns.
Before I go, I'll leave you one last thought:
That happiness is not a fight hard-fought;
It's neither captured, traded, sold, nor bought;
From neither friends nor fortune is it wrought,
Though, like a cold, it's often lost and caught.
All efforts otherwise amount to naught,
Till happiness inside thyself is sought.
