Bosch might find us appropriate subjects for his hellish
Landscapes. See the missus filled with rage. A plastic
Tub's without a lid! The grandkids roam from place to
Place, their noses runny, grasping things which are not
Theirs and dashing them against the handy marble floor.
They whine and scream relentlessly. Their father shouts
Above them as their mother slips away to work. Uneaten
Food, inhuman beasts; I welcome Bosch as I escape
To enter Breugal's placid realm. In it, I put on waxen
Wings and plunge, with luck, to my demise, into
An icy sea.