It is funny to me,
The way certain people love, to love a tree.
In some ways it is just a tease,
But, what isn't, is how it feels to create your own gale,
Doing away with the thought of a scale;
A line high and zippy,
The spray looked o so pretty.
Not to be left to wonder,
He decided to risk a possible blunder.
He took to the race like a horse bred of the finest kind,
With songs, light, and vision in his mind,
Like a chemistry test he had not known,
He came out of the magnificent zone
With effort concentrated and free.
He had forgotten he had to pee,
Aches and pains, and lion sized yawns
Led him to know he would not wake at dawn.
Unless he kept himself up late;
And ate, ate, ate
Then he would have to wake up,
And pour a little cup,
Go for a nice time gliding upon the waves,
And then, retreat for the day into peaceful enclaves
Of great scholarly thought,
This way he would not be a robot.
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