Image result for socrates in the woods in renaissance painting

To not be popular, I made a bad recording of my song,

And sent the recording to only the best philosophers

Who knew a sad ballad when they were young;

All I find interesting, is a little bit wrong.

Because I slept well, I slept late, and to find the quiet day

I had to hurry, and looked a mess,

Before the morning, singing and misty, slipped away.

I love Nietzsche, but disagree with Nietzsche, nonetheless.

I sincerely hope you’ll find my praise, when I love you, sincere,

Because I’m jealous and hate everybody down here,

Except when they mind their own business and behave;

Rebellion disgusts me—do laundry, clean, cook, work, eat, shower, shave,

And save your pretentiousness for one more gullible;

I care what you’re doing, not whether or not what you do will sell.

If you are too successful you’ll face expectation’s hell.

I expect you won’t love me unless it’s completely unexpected,

And we can be safe and unpopular together,

Our sweet irrational love a sexy description of the weather,

In a copse of oaks and elms. The good love is when lovers are neglected.

You discerned my song was good.

Hidden, we spoke openly at last, because we hadn’t, and because we could.

But there is more to who we are.

We are good, too; we’ll make plans for a distant planet and star.

Don’t forget the hoary, bearded philosophers

Were young and vain once.

They knew their vanity,

And then became philosophers.




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