Dear Mister Splee, I have a story for thee.
A man of humble attire, went fo’ a walk on a dull wire.
Skilled he kept balance, with nothing but a lance.
With a great long stride, he made it to the other side.

Back he went from one side to the other,
he grabbed nineteen polar bears and a ladder.
He carried them across just for fun.
Amazingly it was all at once not one by one.

The whole audience,awed with just a glance,
While monkeys surrounded and began to dance.
He dropped the ladder down, until it reached ground.
And the monkeys climbed up, pouring tea in a cup.

The polar bears climbed down with elegant ease.
I swear one of them sneezed.
But skilled he kept them balance, with nothing but a lance.
The acrobats were on the trapeze, they looked humbly appeased.



Thirty elephants all whiny and giddy.
Climbed the ladder all silly nilly.
Rhinos and Tigers performed ballet.
I hope you might get to see their performance someday.

The monkeys now on tightrope now hung,
By their tails they now flung.
The humble man on tightrope did sat,
collecting the teacups into his hat.

The elephants dove from the top,
into a pool, splish, splish, splop! splop!
O how I wish fo’ you to see the Tigers dancing.
O how I wish fo’ you to see the Rhinos prancing.

A lion or two just fo’ show,
Jump through hoops caught on fire
And a smile caught my eye from the man on the wire
He jump off, down the ladder.

He walked up to me, with glee
and told me to “tell this to Mister Splee:
Come visit me O’ Mister Splee
This circus was designed just for ye”

I told Mister Splee
And a tear rolled down his cheek
Sadder than he could be
He said: “That circus has long since been dead.”

The final breath is entreated by the breaths of wind,
the sky returns again as the stormy clouds depart.
Droplets of water, from seas all over Earth
Puddles of mud which use to be dirt.
Centuries of creation all about,
Weep as fast as the swimming trout.

The morning birth of the turtle doves,
peaceful and sad to see the dark night.
The atmosphere of peace in might,
As it pecks its way out of shell.
Beneath the bone of its mother,
She nurtures without a bother.


The evening loss of dogs of war.
At last the threat returns,
****** turned out of sores.
Teacher sick of burns.
Fire of skies tormenting,
Precipitate of dirt fomenting.

The freedom of the snake is not so seditious,
It feeds on the nest of the turtle dove.
Protect O mother-bird your love,
Jettison the hatred deep inside,
And **** the snake with severely brutal guile.

The final wind is shakened by the quakes of ground.
Hurt is one dove but there is three.
Enough to go around,
Eaten as food by thee.
Hurt I'm, Hurt I be, nature you sicken me.
Nature you sicken me.

O sweet Lady how is thy temper now,
Be it troubled, malicious, or relaxed?
Do ye not see my love? My love aloud.
My heart belongs to the sky as it’s tax.
Melted by love’s pure heat as candle wax.
O sweet Lady please be ye kind to me,
My heart belongs to the sky, not to ye.

O sweet Gentleman do ye prosper now?
Thy strong love is true, please don’t take it back.
Do ye not see the true love I allow?
My heart is to the ground, to nature, a tax.
If ye go, I will follow in your tracks.
O sweet Gentleman be ye kind to me
My heart belongs to the ground, not to ye.

O sweet Love do ye torment the shallow?
They forever last long, when love they lack.
Love does not base itself on selfish Tau.
My heart belongs to the sky and attracts,
The ground is tormenting her in her tracks.
Oh sweet, sweet Love why do ye kind not be?
My heart is working always against me.

My mind is ecstatic,
as I try to organize it.
Plentiful, a full attic,
men and women, animals and plants.
What use is it?
If not as a Physicist.
I look for skylight and I look for lamps.
The Ignorance is looking for truth.

There is no care for future children.
We all come from sea,
We all come from sand,
People war for Peter Pans.

Men die for other Man’s hands.
A strain of man is my pain.
The Sky and The Earth in my hand.
Forever I be in the age of Aquarius.

For a child we all are, we all are Ignorance.
The borders are our limits,
The ponds needn’t separate our spirits.
Nations rise again and again

But the world keeps on turning.
**** for belief if you wish,
But I will die for mine.
The Ignorance is looking for truth.

The hated is looking for love.
He takes but does not give,
He receives but does not plead.
How can one man see,

Without raising his eyes to the sky?
(and the Sky does not see at all).

I have to say the canvas has been painted over yet again.
Can you not decide as to what is pretty?
Skulls bashing for a piece of flesh is not a picture worth painting.
Sir,
If you were to paint with the fire of the sky, people will still find reason to hate you and your art.
For you see people are selfish and believe what they want to believe.
A painting of blood looks beautiful to a lover of bloodshed.
A painting of flowers looks beautiful to lovers of serenity.
Fine art is dead; people look at the Sky and laugh at him despite his beauty.
Meanwhile, those who don’t find humour in the sky, laugh at the ground because they do not see any beauty in dirt.
Be in love with the dirt, appreciate both the dirt and the sky.
For a true artist makes the dirt beautiful and the black of oil he cherishes; for you see:
Both at one time were your forefather and your fore father's father.

Foe of several eras, why do ye love?
Dirt is ruinous to be here, near sky.
Get out, get out, O temptress, you’re no Dove.
You’re a scourge to the eye.

The passion thy self does give for phenomenal proportion and hue.
The riddle of life does leap apart and the colours of temper askew.
Thou majestic brilliance is worthy of the utmost of praises.
Indestructible violet, unfathomable reds, and when lamentable blue; the celestial bodies sum up thou radiance

Thou light brings sight to the blind.
Thou brightness is a key to creative minds.
Thou purpose is to give us ours, thy structure is to give us beauty.
Sky so vast, sky so eternal, you canst leave the world in darken state.

The gray skies of storm, thundering loud, lit up with fires of lightning.
We canst describe how fortunate we are to learn of the sky.
The mov’ment of Earth is thy survival.
Do not leave the Earth, do not leaveth us.
The sky is eternal and we praise thyself for remaining.

The blue sunny skies with discerning truth, we see the sunlight.
No longer the brilliance is cloud-covered.
We deserve less but the sky is much.
Much to be anticipated, much to be received.

O valued sky, the World does not see you as so.
I see the World climb higher just to be ye.
That is why I write thyself an ode.
I write exalting thyself in humble abode.