I can chatter away ‘til the end of the day
About everything under the sun
From the price of trains and the unblocking of drains
To the weather and the holiday sun
But if I pull at this thread will it unravel my bed
and leave me lying in state?
If I scratch at this surface will I be buried in curses
And be questioned by practitioners of hate?
And with stitches unpicked and by trick cards trumped
Be conveyed to the basement of wonder
There to be seated with black eyes deleted
And my curiosity crumbled with thunder
Beneath new silicon skin drawn from the security bin
The clockwork and cantilevers creak
My mouth manipulated to a rhythm un-equated
With stereotyped words that I speak
And accountants and lawyers will subtract and destroy us
With the mechanised hum of tomorrow
And when the law don’t count up to the correct amount
They’ll begin the taxation of sorrow
There is something about a bureaucrat that does not like a poem.
~ Gore Vidal