Sometimes I’d like to go back to the well
And drink deeply of thought
And the dry wit of philosophers stark,
Ugly and cruel. It must have been something
To see all those philosopher kings in their
Day: Walking around in a daze of confusion
And insanity. Eggs in their beards,
Foul wine on their breath and oh - so many
Bastards they fathered running around
Hopelessly, helplessly orphaned by chance
And idea. Yes, I’d like to go back

To the well and draft my own version
Of hell and discord. I’d tell all you jacks
What for in some existential, enigmatic,
Esoteric way. Meantime,

Underneath all the blood
And feathers would be a very dirty joke.
Nobody would catch the punch line.
The punch of the philosopher’s shadow boxing
Line is far too cruel and rude to be understood.

Underneath it all would be dirt, soot and us,
Naked, shivering and helpless: just bastards
Left to the cold winds of reason and logic.

-- Samuel Vargo