To tank, or not to tank: that is the question:

Whether ‘tis nobler of the Suns to suffer

The slings and arrows of the 13^th pick,

Or to take arms against a sea of mediocrity,

And by opposing end it. To draft: 13th:

No more; and by a top 5 pick we end

The heart-ache, and the thousands of empty seats

That stagbuilding is heir to, 'tis a treadmill

Devoutly to be feared. To draft, 13th;

Again: but ‘tis there hope for these vapid Suns?

For in the lottery what dreams may come,

But losing has given the front office pause:

To abrogate the calamity of conbuilding:

For we who bear the whips and scorns of mediocrity,

The banker's wrong, the lawyer's contumely,

The pang of playoffs missed, the rebuild's delay,

The insolence of the Lakers, and the Spurs

That patient merit of our loyal fans,

When they can end this vicious cycle

With picks and youth that trades may bear

But yet they vacillate with timorous eye

to spy upon the perils of being bad,

The unfamiliar land of futility

No Sun has traveled, puzzles the will,

And cozens them to endure this purgatory

Rather than test the depths of the lottery pool;

Thus trepidation does make cowards of them all,

And thus the oneiric musings of a renascent Suns

Are sicklied o'er with the pale cast of doubt,

And the refulgent talent that top picks bring;

Is sullied in our minds by their reluctance

And we lose the next Durant. The next Rose!

Oh Suns! Release us from this prison!

Lose now; Win later.