The world does not belong to me,
and I not to the world.
So what do I belong to, if not myself or them?
I belong to Jupiter, an alien from mars.
I don’t belong in noisy places, crowded fairs, nor bars.
The church is filled with congregation, a massive blob of one.
And I of one, a massive blob, of gelatinous juice from space.
I eat and eat as I wish, I do not say my grace.
And the jobs are filled with workers, just as miserable as me, but work I shall not do. It feels just so monotonous, like that monkey at the zoo.
I’m rather like a monster, a nasty CEO, but they dress too proper, with ties and button up shirts. For these things I have no neck. The money charts I would wreck. I have no wrists for a fat gold watch, or a chest to hang some tweed. I do not have a formal head, for hat, nor an ankle for a shoe. To run real fast in football or a bank for money to save. For have I not no bones at all? No casket for a grave?
Certainly not for I am flab from tip to toe, but I do not have no feet. My butt it's made of rubber, and you’d scream if we were to meet. I fibble and fabble night and day and my lips are sealed with glue. My brain feels like a can of soup, I have no center for which to droop. My silly willy is as nilly as pie, and of this loss I cannot deny. Some call me ridiculous but I prefer nebulous, so of this wheel round out for less. As to settle is too simple, and I’d rather pop a pimple, then play the game your way.
So strangers do not see me, for the me that is in them, and famous people whizz on by me like the wind. The cute ones and the ugly ones all pass me by like the clouds. I see them all but none not me, these silly earthly gems.
Someday when I reveal, my natural boobly form,
the masses they will boo. But at their faces I will laugh and vanish, without a clue, they will look at the sky again and ask, my gosh, why is it blue? And at the answer ask again.
then I’ll be found inside a cow, but leave at the next moo.
For I am a silly spirit, lost in the outer space of my inside
placed in this stupid body, oppressed by flesh that’s stuck on me,
but of the matters in this world, I simply won’t abide,
for all the secrets in the ocean’s depths, the bursting sun confides
at random places half past ten, with rules as whimsical as section 8 clause three
my mind a buzzing honeybee, a butterfly for looks
looking out from in the garden, on a flower I’ll be seen,
but catch me and I shall sting you hard but once,
then there beside the lilies, the marigolds, and hollyhocks, I die proudly for the queen