Boiling pot brains,
how you toil yourselves!
Watchword, between thinking I count the fingers grow on my days,
and delight in grass children, do watch them flourish
as they tilt their heads to the sun;
yet you, hardly ceasing to breathe,
are engaged solely in the catching of thoughts,
tangled in your grey meat traps -
I doff my scalp to thee, and hope the exposure not indecent.
Jealous stealing tinkerers, all moonshine thoughts pour from your heads,
but burn brightest when others see;
for you, they lack lustre, and their afterbirth is sorrow.
Wherefore this morass, of such inferior superiors?
Mired in a fen, penned in a bog, lost widely across this wide and subtle expanse
of timed living and free-hand writing,
you are so very fig.
Loligag, I wonder - art thou wiser
than I, poor sprout of gibber wishes,
drinker of tea and lemons beneath a tree’s spread,
whiles you bury in pulp and chew on words,