The finger of blame fell squarely on Eleanor,
killing her, outright, a postmodern tragedy;
'Actually, Daddy,' her sister said (Julia),
'awfully funny to think of her, struggling,
under God's forefinger, squashed like a centipede.'
Julia felt fate would never prostrate her.
Later that week she was mown down by irony,
returned to sender (to whit: her Creator).
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