What We Are
We’re only what we are ,
no way getting round it,
your shoes don’t fit a bit
and you cannot wear mine.
Stuck within these confines
at isolation’s door,
roll out the rug and dance a song,
be the you the pack spat out.
Uno, Uno, Uno?
I enjoy the cat’s pajamas
they verbalize at times, but not
the moans of underlying pain.
Don’t let us know what lies ahead
a life of somersaults, dance
and glee only to be sidetracked
by a dislocated knee. That I’m
one of those complaining does not
change my mind a whit.
If you think that I am lying just you wait a bit.
IF GOD HAD A TATTOO WHAT WOULD IT SAY?
“Pedomorphosis” is what I would think;
love’s breeding ground is our survival link.
We love cute babies and then they love theirs,
so ever afterwards we love our heirs.
“Pardon me, Sir, but I have a suggestion:
our enemies cute be out
of the question?”