Be it not me to tell a fool he is a fool

Does he know he dances naked in Red square

Caked in white ochre he twirls around like in a weaving spool

Spouting delusions nonsensically, he lays his befuddled simple mind bare

As he jumps up then he spins, sways, bends, twists, then pirouette like its cool



Be it not me to say he has a stub for a tool

For many are crazed by this affliction of what's down there

Becoming tin gods, tyrants and oppressors, in a cruel merciless rule

Heaven helps the gifted, for the thimble oppressor becomes riddled with fear

Hurling anger and loathing, envy and jealousy, whilst enraptured with the mind of a ghoul



Be it not me to give credence to the antics of a fool

Plainly, we do not dance to same tune, nor have similar tunics to wear

For even in our world of plenty, many hapless lives are shut down by a little tool

Be it with wicked slander or iron sharpened or blazing fire, smallness knows little cheer

Clothed, naked or dancing in white ochre, a stub can cause insanity not taught in Medical school.