It’s no go the Yogi-Man, it’s no go Blavatsky, 1 All I want is a pack of cigars, and a pint of whiskey When the evening is spread out against the sky 2 Like a penitent bereft of his heavenly pie. Sorry, Descartes, I think, but I do not exist; Sorry, Bergson, I exist, but I do not change. Standing at the crossroads of life’s mid-way I look like a scarecrow scared of crows, Baffled by the tumbling turns of the tide, The flaming sword of Eden’s cherub onward To the battles and wars men fought with men: His own God’s own men, in the widening gyre. 3 It’s no go the bodhisattva, it’s no go the Mahatma, All they want is a bank balance, and a bit of sadhana On weekends to appease the thirst of the spirit That’s superannuated on a computer’s digit. Do not go gentle into that good night, my son, 4 Coat your lollipop with iron and your heart with chocolate, Fold your arms to the white of the priest’s habit, Shake your hand with the blah-blah of yo
Cerebrate and Celebrate