What's the point
In being annointed
Feather headed bird bathers,
And the severed heads of absurd cadavers?
I search the words for that perfect head hatter
Inside, who only says exactly what matters
When I grow old, overweight, lonely, poor, with clothes that tatter
Walking around with a lumpy throat collecting a mind a scatter
I'd rather not blather
I'd rather just know that what I have held I can hold
Without the need to move more than a wrinkled coats fold
To feel you peeled orange warm unto my magenta blue cold.