Tubercular odyssey

The Lord is my oyster

Such a card

And efficient I concede

Perhaps I need to submit

To his order

Of richly veiled burocratic

Inky blackness

Defined by binary ping pong

The not knowingness

Out of my handiness

With a travelcard

I knew where I was

And I didn’t feel the icy chill

Of his phantom hand

Picking my pocket

When I swipe to exit

It’s etheric in all the wrong ways

Orange ticket void

Oyster shell quantum

Soup soup

I like the bleeping

Perhaps I can let go

But it’s hard to trust

No one in particular