At first the line was flat

as the laughable little superapes
flailed at each other with long-haired
fists and sharp finger nails.
It budged upward a little when
they learned what a rock can do
to a man's head.
It was jolted when what was
once used to bring down a deer
was now used to tear through
a leather covered chest.
But muscle power bound the line's
rise, and even the gladius's
colorful career was
simply an elaboration
on a hoary theme.
The night labor of the
alchemists began the line's
ominous ascent.
Soon the missiles
became noisier and nastier,
and then, after the machines
began their deafening reign,
the conical demons became
monstrous in their
demented rage.
And when the man
with the ever-present pipe
became Death, the Destroyer
of the World,
the line shot straight upward.
The moment had finally arrived--
our greatest accomplishment
was finally
in reach,
and that which we are truly
best at
was about to receive its
well-deserved
apotheosis.