Songs from a madman's cabin

His   fiddle   blows   tunes   unheard,

       Rattles without seeds, 

                    Seeds from whence sprout no life,                  

Fill his soul with a light unearthly,

God’s bits of wood;

I strain my ear, his music smells of the strength of steel;

My mind is aloft seas of   terror,

The end, my end, can only be near;

I am the child of fear;

It is not vanity, I say,

To applaud the moving discourses of a wise man,

In the heat of conversation,

Even when by yourself in a room be;

It is not vanity,

To strike the mirror to shatters,

When all your innocent soul intended,

Was to hug a creation so perfect;

It borders not vanity;

To look about with proud eyes,

And pat thyself on the back,

For a good job,

Yet to be done

It be not vain,

To demand that elders kneel before children,

For Mother Nature rightly bends their backs;

As an aid to servitude,

While the honour of youth is a straight back,

That they may forever look down on all others;

It cannot be vanity,

To cast off all apparel,

And head to market day,

For why carry excess baggage,

When there, the newest garments await your arrival;

It shouldn’t be vanity,

To write verse that readily incites scandal,

For I am told, of wisdom,

That it was a rare rodent,

Poached to extinction,

By generations past;

It may not, cannot be vanity,

Only the songs of a madman,

Lying in a cabin,

Whose walls are, but masses of air …