Reason’s a Johnny-come-lately.
An upstart, arriviste, nouveau riche,
Swaggering, as if he ruled the roost.
Johnny – forget the word on the street –
Johnny’s the unenlightened one,
Ignorant of what he most needs to know.

Johnny’s god walks on feet of clay.
Glorious clay, the stuff we’re made of,
The compost of our history!
A history Johnny barely reads.

Our muddy desires,
Wanting acclaim,
Fearing censure.
Drawn to join,
Longing to escape.
Attracted by distraction,
Distracted by attraction.

Desires, moods jostle Johnny,
Screwing him like a pepper pot.
His glorious clay he’d claim to be above,
Believing – don’t laugh –
He’s detached from all that stuff.

So attached is Johnny, so mired in clay,
Every single thought he’s bred is
Private compost fed.