I will put the Singularity into fourteen lines
And keep him there; and let him thence escape
If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape
Flood, fire, and demon --- his adroit designs Will strain to nothing in the strict confines Of this sweet order, where, in pious rape, I hold his essence and amorphous shape, Till he with Order mingles and combines. Past are the hours, the years of our duress, His arrogance, our awful servitude:
I have him. He is nothing more nor less Than something simple not yet understood; I shall not even force him to confess;
Or answer. I will only make him good.
---St. Vincent Milay (AKA Lawnmower Boy)