"Existence is but a deception," thinks Mister Sen,
"a ***** little lie, a junkyard of loss created by all men."
With cellophane dreams in restless hearts,
Mister Sen contemplates "to- comprehend, this or that."
"But everything is as zero as good,
and all are as one as bad."
Mister Sen thinks to himself, "I ain't no ***** little rat..."
Thus he walked out, and right on to the door, and,
With fancy biggy dreams,
stopped once or maybe twice to check out the store,
A store of books which sold fiction and all those upon a time, just at once,
Mister Sen, therein and herein, thought of having a slightly furtive glance.
He has read a lot of Sartre, Beauvoir, and Gilles,
He has read of Toni Morrison, The bluest eye,
But he has never read of himself on any given day,
He has never read of himself within any story to say.
Thus Mister Sen thought to himself-
"I am all old and a bit too shy to be told, maybe...
In any drama or an in any such way, to be too fictitiously wavy,
Existence is but a deception, and a ***** little lie,
Even in fiction and philosophy, I Don't have any right to look
around with my eye,
Why won't I have a chance to say any goodbye?"
He walked home, all cold and tired, and all,
With nothing in the world which seemed to be so good as true,
Mister Sen but never thought of himself,
That he was a story, combined to form a million things, untrue.
Mister Sen, Well this one's for you!
"It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew, They were all really blue,
Dreamy And wavy like scented flowers at night and bright,
Bright as white and pearly glow,
Mister Sen They were all really blue,
To be honest at heart, they were, Meant to be only for you."
Mister Sen, this one is for you!
It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew
