Rondo a la tourque
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
mesquite, that final crucial flavoring,
rhe wood used to enliven the tar,
with hear and spirit, was a necessary,
point of justice.
some shall say more crucial,
than the redundant feathers.
a sprinkling of the ground screwbeans,
upon the tortured head,
the blakened head of the villain,
will infuse him with yet better appreciation of the requirements,
of a peacful society.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
let's see that spinner mop,
cleverly encapsulated,
in the monk's garment,
oh how did he manged to conceal it?
that endless mechnism,
a work of Archimedes,
you pump and stirr the cirle mop,
pump and stirr away,
a useful tool,
yet useless without,
the reciprocally minded,
kindred bucket.
which william holds, two.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
bedeviled eggs, and not deviled ones,
are sulferous, creations,
layed by a headless chicken,
boiled by Beelzebub,
spiced by Azzael,
a picnic snack for a satan who hopes,
hopes for salmonella.
eat not of the accursed,
offerings of the evil one,
yet know them well,
know that the mayonnaise stains,
shall forever mar the garment.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
a hystoric reliquary kept,
in a cotton lined pocket,
a toothbrush, its bristles nowfrayed,
that once protected a line of kings,
from gengevites,
from cavitation of the molars.
a kingly affliction, and preventable,
it was reasoned, by a brushing,
by the servants.
passed with care
from one usurper to another.
none died of tooth decay.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
list of contents so comprised,
to detail the contents of each chamber,
each hoard, each parting,
carefully classified,
to ease the future search,
to prevent the misplacing,
jotted down with quill and ink,
the summery of all things.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
and who to william shall be pet,
a kindred spirit,
in devotion to containing?
no kangaroo found he, alas,
neither a wombat, or a Tasmanian devil.
with all his efforts,
and despite his learning,
found he just a 'possum.
that dramatic actor,
who never laments his demise,
in parting verse,
but plays dead so well.
it has a warm corner in the pocket.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
leprosy is no joke,
no thing to wash away,
and while it is relatively mild
with humans today,
it is a death sentence to fairies,
the leprechaun in william's pocket is one such afflicted,
pocked and sickned,
it whispers in stupor of his pot of gold.
the caring monk feeds him,
a broth of herbs,
keeping the Irish spirit,
from fuming away.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
ceiling wax is a needful thing,
ceilings don't shine on their own,
and through that, we must apply the waxmachine to climb the wall and buff.
it was no wonder,
that Hector the hero of troy feared it,
a well-buffed ceiling scared the warrior.
it was ceiling wax , his Achilles heel,
that drove him,
into the comfort,
of labyrinthine pursuits,
those soothing rough walls,
those moldy overhangs,
distracted the prince greatly,
driving him to no better waste of time,
all that's left is a clay tablet,
a memento Hector kept,
of a rugged cavern.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
life's not hard, it is viscous,
said the wizend monk,
and he kept a capillary viscometer,
to prove his point.
the visecctitudes,
those slingsband arrows are hard,
or so they seem.
but if we want to get technical,
we must ask "how hard"
and since 'very' ,
is no worthy reply,
we must treat it as a liquid.
here we measure,
after liquification,
the essential resistance to movement,
the outrageous fortune drains down the narrow capillary, and with an hourglass,
he knows.
yes, life is very viscous;
more than honey, more than tar,
it drips down, sorrowfully fast,
and yet agonizingly slow.
life is viscous, rubbery stuff,
but 'tiss no hard steel, or gemstone.
to crush, less you let it.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
in Sierra Madre, liath the mine,
known only now to Dobbs.
'consceince, what a thing! 'said he,
'if you believe you got one, it'll drive you to death. if you don't, believe, it can do nothin to ya!'
concience is like a treasure map,
you may have an X with gold under it,
you may have an X with naught.
but you can't have a map,
without that X.
in okham, william knows,
many hidden Xs ,
figuratively and literary.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.