It is a plausible notion

That extant, extract motion
That sibilant digression, suppressed
That push push push into near oblivion

And what is your worry?
Your doctored-up in-doc-tri-nation
Take a breather, take off your coat, slip off your shoes
Slip away into nothingness for a moment -- relax, unwind

But the beast is at play again
Toiling away at the never-ending creation of busy-work
The mind does not wander long, nor far
Blissful creativity is but a past vocation, passed on, lost
Tingling gestures are its residual reminders, nothing more

Keep it -- we don't want it
Whatever it is, it's not our fancy, our taste
Doesn't fit in our scheme, our plot, our plans

Why bribe the baker with buttered ham?
He has no use for meats -- he deals in carbs only
Just ask his mother, with the chicken pot pie
She teased him so... so... severely, until he cried
Then he returned the favor with apples inside

It is a simple idea

This probing, prodding instrument
This last measure of the sacrament, fettered
This push push push into...