On trains

I wonder why the world should feel,
Exactly the way I don't,
When things seem to be coming at you,
They are really going away,
But even so the higher things,
Give way unto the low,
And everyone remarks about,
The way the story goes,
Who's to blame for the contrived plot,
Or the lackluster CGI?

It's you and I, not him or her,
Who ought to be condemned,
For the story was not written,
Not spoken, played, or drawn,
Stumbled upon the stage,
Laid bare before the masses,
We're forced to act in pantomime,
Adlib with no technique,
The audience is free to jeer,
As loud as they may please,
Our rebukes fall to the censor,
Are poked with red-hot pins,
Fed to starving lions,
Escorted to the pit,

So stand we here stark naked,
Without a shield or spear,
And forced to act out,
Homer, Moses, or even Shakespeare,
Though the crowd may cheer us,
When we play to their demand,
Their praise brings us no gladness,
Their words like jagged sand,
For who can forget the madness,
By which we're made to stand?

One may seem a friend,
As you act out his part,
But turn unto another,
And jealousy prevails,
To seek that for another,
Or seek that for yourself,
Is cause enough to sunder,
All kinship that was there,

I act for nothing, no one,
Naught for he or she,
Until I then found someone,
Who would deign to act for me,
You sat at my worn table,
And spake at my request,
You fibbed a bit from Chaucer,
You forged a line of Kant,
You aspursed from Noam Chomsky,
You purged some Friedrich Nietzsche,
In return I acted,
The way you seemed most pleased,
I sighed about St. Constantine,
I dribbled out my Luther,
I droned about Abraham,
And all his children after,
You giggled, said how novel,
I laughed, returned the jest,
Then from there went onward,
We played out on the grass,
The sunset's brilliant colors,
Played decrescending strings,
The moonlight pierced the darkness,
And pierced our souls I think,
Continuing till nighttime,
Gave way to early spring,
When all the bees found blossoms,
The butterflies took wing,
The squirrels chittered in their trees,
The foxes in their dens,
The bears came after us then,
For Spring is when they feed,
They will not stop for anything,
Not beauty, love, or creed,
We run out of the wilderness,
We reach a urban town,
The bear is shot by police men,
Who we thank most graciously,
Our lack of garb disturbs them,
We're committed without plea,
It's not our fault the way we're born,
Why fear our nudity?
They fit us with some coverings,
It does not change what's there,
They pat my cheeks and honk your nose,
Then put ribbons in our hair,
Released out on the street that way,
We came upon a man,
Who spat at us, "The end is near!"
To which we had to stare,
He said we're doomed,
We must repent,
What we did wrong,
I must confess,
I do not think is clear,
So to the custom which we learned,
Was meant for those in need,
We pat his cheeks and honk his nose,
Leave ribbons in his hair.