Standing oration, in ode of fuck off

"Why don't I take
a flying fuck
at the beautiful bare-ass
silvery light of the moon?
In with a chance to plant
my pole, let my freak flag furl
and stand with a hand on the heart
of things, while below
me a proud and grateful world
lifts its eyes to their feet and cries
and sings? I suspect
anyone struck
by the chance of that
would not fail to respect
the good of it,

if they tried.
Shall I do it then?
Or now?

If you could fuck off
- if you saw your chance, like I
- would you do it? Would you

fuck entirely off,
or just a modicum? How much off
would an off fuck fuck if an off
fuck could fuck off? And are you
the fuckoff? Or just the off?

Fuck if I know, but I wouldn't discount
the possibility, before trying to foist it off
first at full-price as fair wares
for any discerning fucker,
potentially,
of off.

In the end
it reduces to this:
the beneficial off
should be fucked.
But who benefits?"

And he sits! And stays.

The whole room exploded
in inattention resuming the usual course
of their blended and warped, weft
wended way.
It was a social fabric
we wove, and whether we knew
it all
or not,
we were
all the stronger
for the inclusion of such
off and fucking possibilities.

Anyway.

I knew I was.