Last Thursday on Talent Night at that little club over on the hot planet, one young sorehead moseyed up the mike with his fairly trusty guitar and announced, “I’d like to sing this little number I just recently writ. I call it, ‘You Ain’t Really Got The Blues ‘Til You’ve Run Out Of Bad Luck!’”
(And then he said, “It goes like this” – and he was right.)
In several ways, on many days, some people hold their bank balance as their myth.
If direction is irrelevant, what does that say about the pertinence of dimensions? And he added: Is there nowhere to turn to? Yes. Is there no place to go? Certainly. Is there no one to cling to? Why sure – but don’t stand so close…
One concerned parent found it necessary to constantly reassure her child that, “the humidity has nothing to do with one’s I.Q.,” when he knew it was a damn lie.
A freelance jester at one revolutionist camp, one evening danced the following rhyme:
“Why be a fanatic
In matters somatic?
Also, OTHER wise,
As you might surmise.”
…Oh yeah, a few weeks later, when he was feeling greater, he offered up this one (in what seems to be self-referral-meter):
“When poetry turns to prose,
I always hold my nose.
The offense I hope to quell
To my verbal sense of smell.
The special made mundane,
Inclines me to brain pain.
And while my rhymes are hot,
I think right here I’ll discontinue them.”
If you have any tendencies to be ugly, getting in a human hurry only exacerbates them.