The poet in his ivory tower
Has not the power
To change
This deranged
Place
Where the lunatic’s face
Flushed with belief
Brings the world to grief.

Those who think themselves sane
Cudgel their brain
And impose dreams
(which they call schemes)
For the improvement of man.

When dreams fail
The believers wail
“We will get it right next time”.
Or, for shame
They blame
The poor
Gardener who asks nothing more
Than to be left alone to cultivate his garden.

The poet begs pardon
To be excused,
With an amused smile,
For there can be no denial
That time spent in rhyme
Keeps him safe from humanity’s grime.