The young boy made sentences not drawings
With crayons and one day broke in half
Eighty-eight in the box (he had reason),
Leaving eight to suffice for the cawings
He scribbled so his friends might read and laugh.
His parents banished him for this treason.
Man built a tower to hold one language
Then blamed their god when hate caused them to spit
Out words no man spoke and rip up the page
They'd written, substituting bullshit.
The tower still stands, rotting and silent,
But for the boy, now a man, who scribbles
On a clapper-less bell senseless dribble,
While each man mumbles alone in his tent.
