Once upon a blustery gray morn, while eyes wandered, red and worn, 'cross many a scant and useless postings of the social roar-- While I emojied, barely reading, suddenly there came a greeting, As of someone gently pleading, pleading like a friend of yore. "'Tis some outsider," I assumed, "greeting me like friend of yore-- Only this and nothing more. It was surely in late October, and I was doubtless still hungover, And each withering leaf of ochre dissolved to mulch outside the door. Futilely, I blessed the season--vainly had I hoped for reason From those who had engendered treason--treason from within our shores-- Lest the rare and delicate nation devolve to dire civil war-- Faithless here for evermore. But then, my session nearly ended, I acquiesced to be new friended And thus, appeared a surly Zuckbird, oh so smugly as before. Not the least attention paid me, neither Like nor Love he gave me, But with air of heir apparent deigned he to pretend we had a fine rapport-- Sat upon his throne of billions, presumed we had a fine rapport-- Winked and grinned and nothing more. Then this arrogant bird ensnaring my dour fancy into sharing, By the complacent and insincere demeanor that it wore, "Though his control of Algorithm assumes we must all be with him-- Weaselly snide and craven man-child programming us to deplore-- Tell me what his worldly aim be, what it is he searches for!" Quoth the Zuckbird, "Ever more." How I marveled the shameless bird could hold itself blameless, With its answer all but aimless--no acknowledgement it bore; One can only gape and wonder at such blindness to a blunder, And all that had been torn asunder, no intention to restore-- But to speak the same old cautious words insisting we ignore. And thus, provide it ever more. Still the Zuckbird, nested safely in its gilded cage, spoke bravely, Only of unfairness, namely all the leaks of information it abhorred. Little else did it yammer--and one could hardly help but stammer-- Or even quite forgive the grammar, when rather than ideas explore, The shrouded boy only upped the ante, as his flock had always done before. Quoth the Zuckbird, "Ever more."