Wouldn't it be something

if,

after the last word is done resonating in the dying air,

and every garish nightmare has been known,

and every gentle act of love has had its absurd triumph,

and every great, terrible, noble, obscene, and mundane task

has been brought to a shuddering finish,

and the red giant is devouring the last of us,

it had all been brought about

because chains of A's and G's and C's and T's

were lousy at making copies of themselves

and searched mindlessly,

idiotically,

blindly,

for any way possible

to keep doing it?

It really would be too damned

funny.