here i am, a-blathering,
but i'm told i do it wrong.
for that i spam, some skites do sing
it seems that there's but one skite song.
my words, you say, do stink like play-do
and for my banishment, you now do call.
very well, please send for phaedo
to visit me in my prison stall.
whats the point of brand new things
when your biases remains the same?
a whirling network, a phone that rings:
your inner animal these cannot tame.
and tho' you love, [which is the key],
you hide, hide in your thinkings;
from passion, turn; to fore-sight, flee-
your shit remains a-stinking.
what, in the galaxy, will you find
as resources you gluttonously guzzle,
while to your needy, you remain blind?
a laboratory cannot solve most puzzles.
and so, i blathe the wrong way, aye?
it's just the same as the age of copper
when in the street, you hoped i'd die
fer refusalizing to speak wit' you proper.
with uranium as your source
for energies to fuel your fire
why reproach andrUranium's course?
you created the problems, sire!
so, you wish that i'd abate?
clearly you do not share my vision.
anyway, i am here to illustrate
there's a spirit in the things you fission.
foresight, sure, it has its worth
but it certainly isn't a king.
spontaneity, and spiritual mirth,
are also titans clad in wings.
made of mud, or made of clay
fire won't change your station!
to reach new forms, there's but one way
for only death brings transformation!
what's it to you?