key
 

What to do, what to do...
Brickleham Tottingnotter paced on the bluff, wiping gook from his eyes
face alternating 'tween consternation and a look of surprise...
fast tails of smoke rise - there's blackened soot in behind
the solitary tent which quivers under looks from the sky.
Pastel. Purple orangey blues...it shook him inside
Casting shadows like dying worms on the hook of his life
He forced three smiles; shedding tears he understood them as lies
Standing tall for nature, God, or the good of his pride.
but behind him Remorse creeps in his hooded disguise
A bluejay alights, high on the wood of the pine.
The human being's such a credulous thing.
Lying with all the fervor that Georgias' rhetoric brings
Clutching his Malcolm Lowry bottle, making elephants pink
delirium tremens - both their freedom and their exodus sinks
Birckleham Tottingnotter swayed precisely like a pendulum's swing
Existence curves upon itself and then the precipice winks
Man's a means to enlightenment, a means to tenuous strings
A point of consciousness bizarre, mutant genesis sick
reaching the point between moments where blessedness sings -
he undulates
then steps forward and grins, spreading his Daedalus wings