By Jonty Tiplady.
For silly automatic theory
answer yes. My body says yes, my house says
yes, my tree on the horizon line behind
my house says yes. I am living,
in my soul's soul, in the soul that lives
like a wisp of smoke above by own wigwam, in the
age of the answer, in the ageless age of
my pen, my pen that never comes
a cropper, dept-rayon, that never flaps, cartoon
beauty, that never kips, Mr Flying Bike, that never laps
me, for I lap it, we lap the one the other, in the same
white chalk ring, Mr Hangman, that never even takes
not even once, not even a mite of it.
What I find in insider psyche, nothing grows fusty in this
a tad, this tad of, this old giant tardis butterfly man.
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