If only I could do it. Well once I did.
The thrill of a lifetime. That it was.
I don’t need sainthood for my id.
Everybody shouted the obvious because.
I was on my way to the moon!
But half there I was sidetracked
by that critic who was a baboon.
Not there. Not during the last act.
But I have no doubt he was carrying
a natty bag with one ball bearing.
That’s how they come like thieves in the night.
Stealing your glory. Tiptoeing from sight.
I could show him what he missed.
Whip him wicked and beat my chest.
But that would play into his hands.
In the papers he’d be doing handstands.
Well comes the day. Heaven, I suppose,
where nobody sneaks out or attacks.
That praises who unconsciously knows.
Or sends us home with a slap on the back.
crying our hearts out for missing the boat.
Still we’re here holding noses to float.