The Centipide & The Shrink

Lines

Notwithstanding everybody's views

What I believe won't get me into heaven,

Nor your objections banish me to hell.

Sexless Jesus isn't my redeemer.

And Jerry Falwell's dead. Who's Jimmy Swaggart?
Billy Graham's gotten very old

And still he's on this side of paradise.

A paradise that's white and middle class.

 

Lines

I understand a little more of him.

It's difficult and if I can takes time.

Are these topics right for poesy?

Shakespeare did not write of gods and fairies,

Though curses, spells and magic did creep in.

But Shakespeare only wrote of human beings.

Humanity! I cannot write of geese.

Humanity! I only know myself,

And seldom if at all do I know that.

There's more to him than he would let me know.

Lies entrap and make a double-bind.

Proceed as though they're true and be embarrassed.

Stand back and doubt and see the liner sink.

Great art comes out of me but unawares.

Grandiose conceit!  And if it does,

I only sit and wait for it to come.

True artists are but god's amanuenses.

Tomorrow if there is a world again

This era of the silly and absurd

Will disappear. And something that is fine

Will replace what's prevalent today.

Death makes all things foolish. But there's time

In every age for something excellent.

The Centipede & The Shrink

This is the tale of a centipede

And a doctor called a shrink.

The centipede was walking

All hundred feet in sync,

When a psychotherapist

Saw him and murmured, “Strange!”

“See here!” the doctor called to him.

“My man, you've got to change.

I am going to help you.

Look at your feet and think.”

“I must?” the centipede replied.

“Well, yes!” the doctor cried.

So the centipede thought seriously

And quickly as a blink

He stumbled, fell on his back in a ditch

And helplessly there he lay.

The doctor stroked his chin,

Looked up and walked away.

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