There's some who arrogantly think That we're the pinnacle of life: That since we have evolved from all The years of struggle, death, and strife That puts us at the very top. But irony approaches: The same can now be truly said Of camels, gnats, And roaches
The verdant Field of Irony
Has always got new growth;
For words and actions will diverge
Till neither mirrors both
We set our stake upon a ground
That is no way our own;
And talk about a flag we fly
That isn’t one we’ve flown
We long to join the rich in words,
Where wealth is metaphor;
Down in the Field of Irony
There’s always room for more
We are born desiring, wanting;
Seldom does that really change.
Though our scenery may vary —
Furniture we’ll rearrange —
Never does the longing leave us,
Nor our restless hearts feel full:
Everyday the pushing, tugging,
Every breath, the constant pull
Of a striving deep within us.
Reaching for, and reaching past
Every happy thing around us
For some other that will last.
Though the morning sits to greet us,
Though a lover waits at home,
We are born desiring, wanting:
We are born to break
Our own
Give up on your desires, and
Your dreams
Let go of what is real, and keep
What seems
Let all your acts be bland, and
Superficial
So you can die before it is
Official
