The pythons wrestle
Not over so noble a prize as Laocoön and his sons
Nor against such wisdom as he spoke
But instead about a bloated pig
Lurching soddenly forward
Constriction slowing its steps no more
Than the muddy ground sucking at its trotters
Coiling dread and unease gripping while
It limps onward
Knowing no other way
Unable to stop
But no more adept at finding solid ground again

I continue to prize your kind support.