The imbecile is at work in world busy about its activities Giving opinions, acting without thought, Obdurate in pursuit of gimcrack distractions and automatic as machine. The imbecile stews in soups of inactivity Natural as wind, bubbling to the surface tireless banalities The imbecile passes through unnoticed Like the quotidian affairs of your neighbor. The one you never knew. What can be said of the lunatic? It has been caged, drugged and beaten Disavowed in prayer and confession Driven into homeless oblivion Domesticated as a dog by breeding Its violent aggression now submissive Its passions forced into hiding. The lunatic is a threat Born wholly from dissatisfaction of Living between the bile and the ideal. Despondent from suffering, Raging against all, screaming fitfully against the order of things from instinct alone. The lunatic cannot reason and the imbecile doesn’t care. Give me the lunatic and I will take it as my friend For I can see that it is fully awake and all it has suffered But the imbecile is without awareness or conscience Left to work in the world it brings misery Because it notices nothing and cares only for the next Distraction Bring me the lunatics They are my brothers and sisters They are art, crying for expression.