You're GOod, You're So Good

​You’re good, you’re so good,
The trouble is, you’re tired,
The trouble is, you couldn’t pick up
Your own body without having perspired,

You creep along the street,
You sit down and you fall asleep,
You hurry home and take out your key
And discover nothing in your keep,

You discover that the top of your head,
The part with all of the marvelous inventions,
Has mysteriously disappeared,
Well, there go all of your great intentions

And your brilliant scintillations. 
All those great plans, wrapped in tar paper,
All of those engines creating thoughts
And deeds are drowned in greasy vapor,

Until your fingers feel tired, you
Who need a guiding hand holding
Your elbow, feeding you oxygen,
Exercising your brain, unfolding

The map before your feet and guiding
Your desire. And when you see
People who are so far from what 
You value most, from the tree

Whose fruits are only yours, but they
Are good, are kind, are sweet,
Then your bitter thoughts collapse,
“My life has been a nothing and a cheat,

I worked so hard and didn’t gain a cent,”
And your soul is beaten flat and thin.
But what would be the fate of the entire
World if it weren’t wrapped in the skin

Of the lion, whose roar is sweet
And holy, whose home in the savannah
Is a plain of holy names, with
The morning scent of dew and manna,

And how low and empty the seabed
Would be if your gut broke, if
You escaped and forgot your text
And only knew a painted hieroglyph.