When Morris Imposternak throws his round shield
Down during, say, the battle of Phillipi or something
Who knows what poems, what true propositions
Will rise out of the sticky, fragrant loam?
If he were a monist philosopher,
His principle would monism,
But it’s hard to believe your own thoughts
And phenomena can be so distracting…
And books can be so disheartening…
And anything can be just so anything:
Thus Russell developed his theory of types to get rid of the Village Barber
But who cares about the theory of types? What’s really interesting is the
Village Barber Paradox!
Or take the phenomenon of love:
He felt such tenderness toward you,
That writing "tenderness" I sigh
"Alas, poor Morris!"
Yet, since no one from the scientific community has ever explained love
to everyone’s satisfaction
Scientists fall in love or do not fall in love
Without any of them really knowing when they are in love or not,
Whether they are in love or not.
This is true. It is also true
That where there’s tenderness, there’s suffering:
Hence when we say that an elbow is tender,
It means we have a booboo,
And money, announcing itself as "legal tender,"
Causes suffering, but in such a way as to absolve the beneficiary thereof
from responsibility therefor.
Look at the sea! Don’t you think that the sea too suffers
When it pulls up its skirt at low tide
And shows the varicose veins, the ingrown hairs, the splotches
Along its cold, pale, swollen, hypertensive leg
It is possible that ideas don’t suffer —
Such as the idea of suffering, for instance, —
But we are not ideas, are we
Morris Imposternak, at least, is not an idea.