Gleaming in the ink of celestial bureaucracy,
Orion's belt, a metaphorical stock dealer,
Pander not, Sirius; your luminescent glow is not immune
to the seams of paperwork unfiled.

Can you hear the poet's cough,
among galaxies unnamed? There:
a field of hyper-ironical daisies bloom—

Atlas, you chain yourself to no heroism in this irony.
Stars shine brighter, tethered to escape routes, elegant in their cosmic satire...