Lack of purpose provides freedom
I’m not devoting myself to pining after goals unachievable
Without divine power to accomplish tasks unbelievable
Holding my breath longer than conceivable
I’ll just relax and pedal around this kingdom

No one believes any of the things I do
The dogmas of their groups don’t let them recognize
The invisible infernal forces governing their lives
Yet they call me foolish and count themselves wise
And constantly assign me a penchant to misconstrue

One of millions of ants under the sun
Happy so long as I don’t say anything
Filling my days like Syd Barrett gardening
It’s the only option God is offering
So now to figure out how to have the most fun

I suffer from a peculiar form of aphasia
I don’t understand anyone, nor do they understand me
So I live under this or that rock, or behind any some such tree
So few friends, so far from family
Never at home, always trying to get to Asia

It’s been so long since I’ve had a muse
Why do I write, if no one is listening?
The maestro is mad because I didn’t go to his christening
There never was a Noah, and her family’s hate is blistering
Since I sent the chief away, there is no one’s ear to use

Caterpillar is too busy to read, and I don’t have a son
X-23 sends a shortly-worded text every thirty days
My parents are consumed with fighting the Democrats’ ways
I have to avoid getting sucked into this or that political craze
So it looks like you’re my new audience, Wilson!

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