Futility

When the bones go softy spongy
   and the mind mushy mushes
   and the eyes rheum and float
   and the ears cease drumming drumming
   and all one’s spunk and gumption rolleth down to the sea,
   who’s to keep things perfect like a picture?

Why be pinching off and pruning
   and rerooting and repooting
   and sprinkling sprinkling sprinkling
   if the silly sills shall then sit stark and stripped?

If what matters doesn’t matter,
   why so picky picky picky?
   so priggedy, pickledy, prickledy?
   so hickety snickety biggety?

 


 





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