I was walking through puddles of oatmeal
As other folks drove behind a steering wheel
I was stuck in a park putrefied by puke
With no apologies nor lies I wished to rebuke

I was floating in a lake filled with dog shit
Lucky there were no dogs present who bit
However there was this tiger running loose
As I watched that tiger consume a goose

at this time I really don’t want to haggle
But it could have been one goose or a gaggle
I was trying to ignore the ignorance all around
While more oatmeal headed for holy ground

Someone stole the soapbox I preached upon yesterday
But it’s difficult to stand on a soapbox with feet of clay
For I am a man who feels that every man’s death is mine
And instead of oatmeal I wished it would rain some vintage wine

Oatmeal, dog shit, a tiger and some geese
While psychotic psychics profess there will never be any peace
After my soapbox was stolen I would just go around asking anyone
Will this be the kind of land and legacy I want to leave for my grandson?
(2001)… ….free cee (this poem is dedicated to a little boy whose whole journey through adolescence I am missing, because 4,000 miles of tar, brick and the sea separate the proudest grandfather and Mr. T.I. (I am required to use initials so as not to give away a son’s concern) as cute a kid that ever was aloud to be little, happy and have a father as his best friend, and his mom as a “dedicated mother rather than a regimented wife.” May he grow up in a world wherein everyone finds comfort in every one and courtesy with respect from everyone alive)