Ever since it was announced that old Praha would be allowing, would be installing, would be promong poetry machines throughout the city, dark elements of the Republic, controllers and others all souped up on Prosaic (sic, real sic), have been fomenting to take back the narrative line from the mad semiocs of lyricists and closet bards out pimpin’ the night with scheming rhymes, pent-up meters, and broken lines.