What you played with, Malcolm, was our long-established expectation.
We had believed we understood the game. You changed our imagination.
It was not always pretty, whole, or even moral; you pushed Sid into his grave.
We extracted romance from his shattered sneer and poisoned imagination.
When I heard them first I was transformed. I fell into their distorted arms.
You certainly stood by and cackled at how you’d exceeded your own imagination.
Of course, you did not know me by name, but I’m sure my type was familiar to you.
You counted on the magnet of filth to pull in the starved rock imagination.
You pulled the string, the easy marks danced, we discerned truth from seeing them.
Did selling bondage gear stifle the leap we made past your imagination?
Did you foresee how quickly we’d free ourselves through your grand swindle?
Did you foresee me, or a million Tonys like me, recreating your imagination?
Dark Matter 
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