St. Whitman

Envision his design every bit as deliberate

And try to be half as considerate of the ignorant

But, s**t… kid, I do this for a living

And I refuse to bicker with little children

 

Hark the humble mumble scriptures

One collectively blessed drone, the tones insipid

Dull and indifferent

Or entranced by bewitched by a lyricist of a dead language

 

In a world where everyone is a critic or cynic

No word is ever tacit nor it’s meaning ever hidden