he comes, dressed in scrap metal,
dragging etiquette by a noose.
strange bumblebee, the odd
clanging bell of varied states
of disrepair revolving his head.
wise hermit clothed as a jester,
yet i thought i saw the lone cowboy.
where there should be a monk
in meditation, i find a laughing duck.
his golden genius is society's refuse.
give him a broken umbrella, a stopped
clock, three frying pans, a bucket
of bolts, some wire and a coat hanger,
and you will find him sailing
to the moon with a winged monkey.
do not underestimate his song,
for all songs are sacred, though his
is the rant of madness, he reminds us
to be wary of our pretensions, our
conventions. never forget this.
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