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."