It Tastes a Bit Like Chicken
I wish to reminisce
Upon the bliss
Of triumph
And the agony
Of tragedy;
Are they not twin and twisted ends
Observed as life occured
In random spurts and trends?
To calculate and gauge his fate
Man did create
The chime of time;
One more illusion born
Inside the mystic mind.
But once accepted
Does become illusion now rejected
And reality's new find.
As time is heard to tock and tick
We do begin to ration it -
Evaluate and allocate
Each tick and tock upon the clock.
Life is lived by few
Observed by many
And understood by none -
Not one!
Though volumes have been written
And creative man is smitten
By the elegance of eloquence
In erudite philosophies
Combined with feeble prophecies;
Man still can only speculate and fabricate
More trendy theories empty of all consequence.
The bard of Avalon
Knew nothing new would ever be
Found underneath the sun;
And though the bard is gone
His truth lives on and on and on.
Man's emotional devotion
To dissecting every notion
Into tiny bits from bigger bits
Until he finds a bit that fits
Within his pre-dissection so prophetic wit of wits,
Has only gained mankind
A loss of nonexistent time.
And in another galaxy
Far, far away,
There is a sweaty desert prophet
Eating crawling things and calling
All inhabitants to suck on worms
And be reborn
In squirmy wormy ritual rebirth.
Their prophet is quite similar to one
Found once upon a time right here on earth.
The Prophet:
"Repent, repent,
Prevent, prevent,
And then repent again;
Then maybe the creator of this hot incinerator
Will awaken His forsaken self, procrastinator
Self, and will begin his job again creating good...forgiving sin.
Now crack this crispy critter's back till flat between your teeth,
There's nothing like a juicy, chewy bug to feed your love;
It tastes a bit like chicken say the bug gourmets beneath
The desert floor who rarely speak to we who live above.
Go save your soul and eat your treat
And I will stay right here to greet
The Son of the Creative One
Who says His work is never done;
But after all He is the Son
Of He who always needs to sleep
And blood can run in blood so deep
Such lazy ways may slowly creep
And leave the Son of One too weak
To carry on the awesome dawn
With all creative juices gone."
Copyright © Tom Mcmurray | Year Posted 2010
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