I have not found the straightjacket of form
I have been unable to adorn the monks gowns
My mind and body are free-formed from strata
And yes there are regrets, would I not
Wish to wear the emperor’s new clothes
For I am nothing, and I will be nothing
And in between the water will only ripple slightly
All of these places which you engagingly talk of
They are not my places
I have no allegory or metaphor at hand
For you to hang your hat or your story on
I am a been there and done that sort of guy
What I write is what is real, and, for the sake
Of understanding I will leave it at that
Except of course for love, or companionship
For I have known these doubtful imposters
And worked out how to treat them the same
Although it is a secret, of secrets purpose
That is to say you must work it out
For no clues are to be found on this page
And the pencil marks will only serve to mislead
