At Isolated Cabin's wooden potty stall, you'll find the finest of baleful magnetic fridge poetry. This ballad of malaise, torn from the Post-Nuclear Poetic Edda, succinctly delivers an acrimonious summary of the human condition in the year 2102, and says pretty much what we were all thinking about the spiced eggs. If civilization were still a thing, I'm sure this morose narrative would be crowned with all the Hugo Awards we could find.
