Everyone says that a troubled personality
Is a fertile plot for garden weeds.
But I say, that it is a bed full of worms.
Have you seen an idea
Come through from the top to the bottom,
Like a compost bin and your mouth
Utters it, to the extent to which
You understand. In romanticism
Its an epiphany and in a board room
It’s a brainwave, but in plain simple
English, it is a trivial outpouring,
Of what you throw out without a second glance,
Like when worms creep out
Of a canned mouth and you’re
Wondering at why everyone is looking
At you, the wisecracking owl
On a mirror, yet, an Appalachian hillbilly
That stammers out the honesty
Of how little we know and still
We utter no-brainers like nursery rhymes or fanfares.
We don’t nap on a Mensa IQ
Nor do we love with Romeo’s EQ
We are just fools sitting on a made-believe throne
Trying valiantly, to find a crown that fits,
The perimeter of a pumpkin head.
