Hamlet doesn’t know that he was written by a monkey. Yet one more soliloquy, his energy is drained. It isn’t déjà vu, but a lingering suspicion, In a universe unbounded, we’ll do this all again.

Sometimes, when I speak my part, I understand ‘forever’ And stumble on a word I’ve said an endless count of times. For every instance on the stage, exact in reproduction, Infinite editions have some small change in one line.

If, in our reality, Recursion is a fact, I wonder who is scribbling The scenes the monkeys act.

Then I start to question That “endless monkeys” stuff. If time is never-ending One monkey is enough

I’ve been charged with telling the true story of the carnage But find I have a message that’s more fundamental still. I speak “Lest more mischance on plots and errors, happens” When, next, an ink-stained monkey dips a newly-sharpened quill.

If, in our reality, Recursion is a fact, I wonder who is scribbling The scenes the monkeys act.

Then I start to question That “endless monkeys” stuff. If time is never-ending One monkey is enough