Those people you see along the street
In drivel, roaming from west to west
Dressed to kill, in the worst of rags
Naked or clothed, holding torn bags.
Those people the Sane prescribe brains
Don’t fail to reason beyond the chains.
The poison that kills the mentally stable
Nourishes and reticulate their cables
Looking at them; I sometimes wish
I was like them, no hook, no fish
But whatever touches their tongue
Is okay, while they sing their song
The rags, garbage is their pleasure
Yet they don’t die of the pressure
The Sane battles, by things they crunch
Life, ought to be no worries as such.