One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn’t belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?
—– Joe Raposo, John Stone and Bruce Heart
We walk among these things.
These things presented as great art.
It’s a lovely day, I’m in a good mood.
Playfully, I peruse and ponder.
I ponder and then… pause.
What is this?
Some squirmy things on the side of a hill.
Drippy, squirmy things.
I’m almost amused and then…
There, on a plaque are words.
Words of “the artist”.
Words about the drippy, squirmy things.
I’m unable to unread the words.
I’m no longer amused.
The drippy, squirmy things now look at me.
I look back, incredulous.
“How dare you!” I cry.
“You drippy, squirmy things!”
“I was happy to see you as simply that.”
“Now you look as if I must see you as something more.”
The drippy, squirmy things do not reply.
How could they?
They are what they are.
Drippy and squirmy, they lay as I…
Seeing the lie.