I once knew a man named Mr. Poe. He wrote quite fast be he talked quite slow.
with his raven and his writing desk tapping out rhythms speaking of matters and ism’s
quick to state an author's blood flows with ink, writing everything but the kitchen sink, on the brink, madness, he's on the brink, giving us the final link, light through the walls chink, show me thyn' chink, to blink, through with mine eye.
that shakespeare said, the poets dead, poetry’s dead like art is dead, and lsd lets you think outside your head. feed your head,
and what could a rabbit possibly be late for, except maybe a party.
we have civil wars and a passive aggressive, and we say the communists are regressive, while our nation is “impressive,” and we have an elective, so we only look at things through our perspective,
please.don't.stop.feeding.your.head
long live the new king the old king is dead
poetry is written to be read
turn in your pistol for a porsche instead
the president is focused on his cred
while the pakistanis have fled
and the afghans have bled for their country they've bled
we only live to be dead.
Mr. poe wrote about dread
shakespeare wrote limericks instead
and lewis Carol munched mushrooms in bed
stop lying to yourself
stop lying to your friends
you're doing it right now
and you'll do it again
now i've dropped knowledge heavier than an aircraft carrier
but you can't change the story without first changing the character.