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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