Their hero made sentences not drawings
With crayons and one day broke in half
Eighty-eight in the box (for no reason),
Leaving little pieces for the cawings
He scribbled so his friends might read and laugh.
No judge would banish him for this treason.
He built a tower to gild his language,
Then praised their god when his hate made them spit
At words others spoke and rip up the page
They'd written, substituting bullshit.
The tower still stands, rotting and silent,
But for the greatest of men who scribbles
On a clapper-less bell senseless dribble.
Asleep, he mumbles alone in his tent.
