Crop Circles

The past, to be sure, requires little imagination
So there’s no need for profundity at this time
And no call for the whole gamut of bittersweet
We count blessings, not the ones we lost, one, two, three

Isn’t that better? Or to dust off the old violin
And let the world know we can’t play
Or write a supercilious poem about how
Crop circles are made at night

How giant ground squirrels with bucket-size eyes
Orchestrate everything from beneath
Then stuff the entrance with dirt
And go tunneling? I saw one do it once

But he wasn’t big enough for this poem
O, yes, we did pour oil on gullible waters
Never have gods and prophets, three, two, one
Been more crippled by the hour

You don’t ask anyone to go to hell anymore
They’ll bring it to your door

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