A wise, old owl lived in an oak.
The more he saw, the less he spoke;
The less he said, the more he heard.
Why can’t we all be like that wise old bird?
Seems like people
been calling me a wise guy
since maybe my third year.
As I conclude my seventy-fifth,
humbly thinking,
almost true.
I confess. It is true.
I am a wise guy.
Like that former Nazi psycho
now an insurance salesman says,
I know some things,
because I’ve seen some things.
I am the new guy
who has been here a long time.
You can learn a lot by losing.
By making mistake after mistake
after fucking mistake.
I am a slow learner.
I learn by doing,
learn best that way.
I don’t do much any more.
A wise man could be sad about that.
But not a happy man.
The only time I could keep pace
was when I ran on my own.
Among proper folk,
some dogs still too wild
– forever –
to stay on the porch.
We had to run.
And I am a happy man.
