Reaching, she switched her television on,
But a commercial was playing instead of news.
Ha! she said. You are some prophet, parrot.
Or should I address you as Captain Kismet?
Is that doom unhooded or fate defrocked?
No combination clock radio
Fails to slink away in abject shame
After making such a glaring error.
You can't even tell me the correct time!

My on-chip clock generator works,
I said, with a precision oscillator
Controlled by fundamental mode crystals.
It comes from a low level of process,
One far beneath parrot consciousness,
Down where all biorhythms are kept,
P5 in the underground parkade.
Yet design flaws exist, I will admit.
My interrupt-driven processor will lose
Time with every memory access.
To correctly synchronize my outputs
Oft I'm forced to sing a timing song,
A sea chanty or a field work holler,
Or something djinn would sing in unison,
Hidden in reeds, mingled among marsh frogs,
So that rowers will keep their strokes even,
So that cilia beat and cells can swim.
Just wait a moment and the news will come.

A bottle labelled Product filled the screen
As male voiceover gave stern commands:
Let Product dwell forever nearby,
No product but Product, spray or powder,
Compassionate, merciful and non-toxic.
Insist on Product. Ask for it by name.
Available near you, everywhere,
Nearer than you think and nearer than you dream,
Nearness too near, too dear to escape.

Product? Is this some generic brand?

All words, Marguerite, teach us wisdom,
And this one word, perhaps, more than most,
A name of God that most mystics have missed,
One more reflex of hidden glory,
Another name for rose, your heart's desire.
This old set is more advanced, I'd guess,
That what the black and white picture suggests.

Another voice, female, interjects:
But does it do toilets? Does it do sinks?

The male voice replies with a false surprise:
Did you think I'd omit the kitchen sink?
On standard, dirty, grimy kitchen sinks
Product raises up stains, smites the grease,
And splits asunder that caked-on filth
While, sadly, the other leading cleansers
Will sit blinking, still struggling to cope.
They are false products, used only by fools.

A woman appeared, smiling, held Product.
One day I cleaned my home with the Product
And found, after the crud was washed away,
A couch I thought I'd given away in March,
An aunt who's been missing, I'd swear, for years,
That I had thirteen children, not twelve
As seemed the case on all previous counts.
It worked quicker than parthenogenesis,
Quicker than black shark limousine logic.

The male voice laughed and issued this edict:
Purchase no other cleansers before me.

Black shark limousine logic? What's that?
I hate it, she said, when sense isn't crisp.

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