why rhyme the words when prose will do
why seek the beat and pattern?
why not just report the skies retort
and the blustering of Saturn?

the a, b, c of 1, 2, 3
the facts laid in a row
surely this will do the trick
to let your thoughts be known

do this, do that, and do it now
line up, sit down, take note
eat all you can of math & science
inside your head they'll float

but when I look inside a grave
its depth is not its measure
and when I hear a King's decree
I don't mistake it for a treasure

and when I listen to the drone
of pundits, prigs and pricks
I sense that language has been robbed
and stabbed with bloody sticks

all your life is like a game
with rules to break and follow
to think of it as otherwise
is to live in something hollow

if you wander from the crowd
and see another scene
come back and share your wonderments
come back, come back again

and though you would be understood
don't think that it's a given
if you speak the deadest prose
it's understood by them that's livin'

oh, god, why all this meandering?
why not be direct and straight?
to take the curves out of our lives
leaves just a hook, no bait

so singsong a wigwam
and wack-a-wacka-doo
make sense unto the morrow
and bippity-boppity-boo

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