The Ballad of Mr. K

 

Mr. K was mostly nice

When he walked about his town,

He gave pennies to the beggar

And saluted the nuns.

 

Of virtue he’d the Times,

For solace a penny dreadful,

Mid-life he didn’t ask for much–

Avoided being hurtful.

 

Two or more angels bothered him–

He didn’t know how many–

That’s the way of it when you’re dull;

The noggin wants its symphony–  

 

False notes and prayers and tricks.

“Try to sing it,” he thought. “Sing!”

A metaphysics of life after life

In the age of global warming.

 

He sang like an orphan all alone,

He sang like a tired gypsy.

He sang with milk and iodine,

He sang ’til he was tipsy.

 

Mr. K was mostly nice

Even when he had the blues.

He told the angels in his head

Armageddon’s for the brutes.

 

He sang like an orphan all alone,

He sang like a tired gypsy.

He sang with milk and iodine,

He sang ’til he was tipsy.

 

He told the angels in his head

Armageddon’s for the brutes.

 

 

S.K.