Where is the fool?
Where is the fool who hides in the man? To question the passing of time, without which his wisdom does suffer the most, splintered from protection, it fails. When spoken in tongues, we see through the lie, no reverence without ridicule, subjected to fancy and flowery prose, full of praise and no sign of ill. The masses await, enthralled by a day will question the purpose, not a bit. Lucky are they who simply feel free to give up their token of wit. But suffer the bastards who stand on the hill, by base, on the heath or beside, a river that cuts between regal and muck, who treacherous slogans cry. Knowing less than they speak, speaking more than they ought, and spending much more than they owe, plagued by such doubts, with no sense of pride as seeking the truth ain’t no good. But stand up for bastards, fools and the one who shake fists in rage at the moon, as lashed by the storm, in fear of it all, ungrateful for what they are thrown, go naked to war with ideas and no more with knowledge they are alone.
(Written between 11am and 12noon, 29th April 2011, with thanks to another William)