At first there is that searing spark
Of blinding, swelling, constant dark.
It hits you like a ton of bricks
Backwards down a punji pit.
The nascent tomes, the burning quest
To fall behind yet stay abreast.
Bound in place you’re forced to run
In clogs cemented down with gum.
“Who’s so cute?! Who’s that there?!”
Over the years they all came and went
The way of the dodo and left the place spent.
I made eighty friends to help pass the time
While I burrowed that hole to escape from my mind.
Then it got slightly better
Before it got worse.
But worse still was the letter
I got from Bratwurst.
“You looked quite the fop in your Opera T-shirt
His handwriting said through the blurry ink spurts.
“Your last day was something, but I heard you got fired.
“Oh no,” I wrote back, “my job simply expired.”
“I’ll soon land another, I’ve always been clever
And now that I’ve got that degree
“I much prefer radians” was the only response
I got out of him at our group’s last seance.
Which brings me full circle back to the first part
So I hope you’ll remember that spark at the start.
A house with no ceilings is not soundly built
Nor can shoelace-less hobos weave leaves to a quilt.
Pigs that can’t fly will soon learn to drown
Over fish that can’t swim on the sun-baked high ground.