Sometimes the only words that fit,
Despite attempts at being forced,
Are so strong and colorfully descript,
They require readers be coerced.
So with third eye poised and a cobra's flute,
Like the only piper they called pied,
I match my smile to my three piece suit,
Raving mad, and Cheshire wide.
But no such luck, for Jim or Chuck,
Or John or James or Jack.
And I just can't seem to give a fuck,
Whither they go or whether they come back.
Cause you can lead a horse to water,
And if he truly thirsts, he'll drink.
But you can't drag a man to genius,
He rarely thirsts, thus rarely thinks.
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