Drawn out like a neck; sweet masseuse of rope, and repeating, jamming cogs that form a threadbare noose
Start-stop, start-stop, dangling, twitching; trapdoor springboard
Thermopylae's a broken record
I've got both lens and the audience to fight
You can spin the reel however you like
But the Spartans always die at the end of the film
Clawing hands of tar, discordant klaxons screaming bloody murder
It beggars belief, but believe me, we've nearly even scratched the surface