ix222 (01/23/83)
we'll try the myth of the poet who gets mail. --------------- There's no putting in a word How it feels to be absurd. Don't complain, don't show me fingers; Let us savor, let us linger By the waters of the Nile. Across from us a crocodile Sunning in the evening sun Is clearly wanting to eat someone. He bites a snake to only find The loathsome form was only slime. He cannot grin, he cannot blush He but sinks lower in the mush, Forgetting his ire... Above the evening sun sinks higher, Setting now this vaunted room Into a self-respecting gloom. Shall we leave him to his doom? There is no self-respect, only pride Hidden where predjudice hides Where pride goeth before the fall There is no self-respect at all. Or in the hypothalamus, a neat incision Reveals the need for much revision And rewriting of our lines We're not debugged, in fine, in fine. . . . awaiting your comments, acclaim or pooh-poohing, steve serocki {ucbvax philabs};sdcsvax;sdccsu3;ix222