There was a silly man, who lived a silly life. He settled on the silly, to relieve the silly strife. Some said that he was silly, to be silly every day. But the serious and silly, both end in the same way.
Whether writing at length or in brevity, I often resort to levity. We are all here for a short while. I would like to contribute some smiles. Don’t assume I treat writing frivolous. Humor is serious business.
I held a formal dinner. And invited notables to be there. Artists, and politicians, and great leaders in many positions. But one by one they sent their regrets, that they couldn't attend my fete. They could not be bothered to show, for someone they didn't know.
The soundtrack in my mind, that recalls this summertime, is one from long ago, because that's all I know. It was written in the thirties. Long before I even heard this. Yet it seems to fit the times, It's call "Brother Can You Spare A Dime?"
The sad eyed clown, at the little girl’s party, cried instead of acting hardy. His sadness spread. Onto the children it fell. The girl’s mother said, “This party is not going well!” The clown shaped balloons, into animals ill. Then it sang the blues, in a voice that was shrill. Then he told them stories. With gloom he spake. Then he coughed and he wheezed, and he sneezed onto the cake! One by one the parents, took their children home. Until the little girl was at her party alone. The clown announced “I have a surprise!” Then he tore off his clothes, which was a disguise. Then parent and child, stood there wide eyed. For underneath, was the same clown that cried.
The mountain wore down to nature’s dance. But part of nature was less than entranced. The brook it babbled about mountain’s decision. “The choice of down is one that needs revision. It should have a crown, a crest or a cap!” On and on in this way the brook did chat. The pines whispered, “We should give it a pass, it’s not at it’s peak and I’ve heard it has gas!” The summer breeze blew it’s hot air. “With a face so craggy perhaps it doesn’t care!” But the meadow was on the mountain’s side. And it swayed and danced as the mountain did slide.
The colors change, because of the later season. What remains, awaits the winds seizing. It floats and falls, gently to the ground. Thoughts arise, although they’re not profound. As I see, the results of passing time. Why trouble me, these thoughts upon my mind? It’s part of life, I know, and I wouldn’t really care, if I was referring to leaves, but I’m talking about my hair.