Shall I remove another?

Shall I remove another?
Why bother? More will pop up to take its place soon enough.
Like popcorn testicles beating against solitary ovaries, rattatat.
The audience was silent. The beat poet hastily flipped to another page of his journal. "Night is like the stupor of a man who spends time talking to dust bins. rattatat."
While throats cleared and people booed, a stray cat in the corner of the hall gagged after smelling a millipede. Someone threw a shooter glass at the poet, missing his head by an
orange mile. Nonplussed the poet continued in an even louder voice. Changing hearts and minds was terribly hard work. How in the world did others do it for years at a time?
He left the stage to tepid, dismissive applause. The next poet, a grizzled veteran named Ray, patted his shoulder as they passed. "This is how." Ray set down his water glass and be
gan gurggling the poem jabberwocky. When Ray got to the part about whiffling through the tulgey wood and burbbling as it came, he ran out of gurggle and splutafabulated all over
The audience in the front row, including the critics. You can imagine the reviews were never published. The critics all were too sick to remember anything. The rest of the audience
either stood in horror, had already left their seats or died from mediocrity (or something worse). This show was a disaster, and was the first of its kind called the Silver Death.

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