Barrington Clomber;
He sees the world in painted ways.
His eyes like marbles in candlelight
They see the whispers in the air
They feel the touch of silk on shaven skin
And yet he is alone, Barry

More trusting of the songs of the lark than the songs of the laymen
at home with fungus and vine, rabbit and duck
He does not touch the things which he cannot understand
Duly; for they too have rejected him
He is alone, Barry

He is a different breed
borne of soil and compost - for no umbilical tether connects him to his maternal visor

A perfectly disguised interloper, in appearance
But yet he hides the colour of his soul
The alien, the absurd, the mystifying
a psychological anomaly, not destined for this realm
but destined for periodic injections and forced conversations
with scribbling spectacled creatures, who look upon him not with pity
but with analytical, fearful eyes
as if looking upon a rat in a cage
If only they knew, that he was an experiment only in the omniscient eyes of the Gods