When we try to make sense of things,
It never works.
Why? Who knows? But the bee still stings.
Preachers still preach, politicians still lie.
And I think that no one shall ever know why.
Things that make sense
Are like a sixpence:
Foreign to you and me;
Unless you live in England,
But nothing makes sense there either.
The countries of the world are more alike than they seem;
Nothing in England drifts upstream.
The bees of Africa sting with as much fury
As those of Brazil;
But then, they are the same species.
(I know it's bad, but I've since learned how to write poetry.)
To the next page.