Its nature is uncertain,
Its purpose not disclosed.
I don’t know what it is,
But I’m sure it isn’t prose.
It rises when falling’s better,
Falls when up’s the thing.
It aims for Nova Scotia
And ends up in Peking.
Perhaps it’s philosophical,
Mayhap it’s existential.
Perhaps very complex,
Or simply elemental.
Could be it’s awfully basic,
Or maybe it’s sublime.
But it isn’t any good at all
If it doesn’t rhyme.
It’s a magic carpet ride
To places quite unknown.
My mind is lost and dizzy,
But my soul calls it home.
What’s it do? I do now know,
But knowing’s not enough.
Oh thank God for that,
I’m befuzzled by this stuff!
But deep down deep where life is lived,
And love is more than reason,
The poetry of the soul,
Is cuz the rhymin’s really pleasin’!
(What, you were expecting maybe something profound?)