Knowledge is powder running through fingers.
Knowledge is crushed by a card on the table.
Knowledge is stuck in your nose and it lingers;
each sting brings regret, and makes a mind unstable.
“ A little learning is dangerous thing”;  
A little smoke to make a fool feel able
to lick the dust up with the devil and sing:
“ Theres dust on the graves and ashes on the cradles"

Don’t mistake this feeling for true wisdom.
Don’t get caught lost in it’s smokey shroud;
for each thought is fleeting and their relevance is seldom.
Like this drab, mess of language said out loud.  
It’s a sober reflection, a warning to myself,
to tell the truth, and to think thorough and proud.
To shame the devil, not blame him for my health.  
To lift that heavy head that was bent over bowed,

And crack it open on the edge of that table.

Like and hour glass smashed and spilling,
this kind of learning seems a waste of time.  
But I can see the filth that had been filling
my head,  scattered out across each rhyme.