Why, oh Why?

I – the fool.

Strung out in piles of confusion

waste-o-matic smiles

in piles of waste-o-matic dust -

dust in a huff of conversation.

The piles of confusion

came tumbling to a halt

in a winter-never-wonder

of a January freeze;

a January freeze

that made February all the colder

when a chicken bone whistle

played a merry hornpipe

and the drops of

clear,

clear,

crystal-cystal clear

chemical confusion

in a waste-o-matic grin

played heavy on the brow of life

There it was that I had to stop

and push myself away.

Tearing at my throat, I screamed

and shouted an inky ave

an inky ave,

black

black

and black as the

crystal-cystal drops

that clouded your pen

Crystal-cystal deafening

and perched on a dusty ledge

the haymaker moonbeam

let out in a windy morn

so dark that it looked

like that inky ave

inky ave

inky ave

that rattled around and

helped me tear my throat

so that my own clouded pen

ran dry.

That darkened, windy morn

was colder than any ever recorded

the science-men drooled

and rubbed their bellies

to see such a cold and frosty day.

We all knew why it was,

but we didn't let on to anyone.

The day was cold

when the fire went out,

when your spirit took leave,

kindly excused yourself,

said goodbye

more politely than can be expected.

You bowed low to the crowd,

and in silence the day grew cold.

Yours, no inky ave,

(but only light)

and I – the fool,

left to stack the firewood.