It seems I have not message of, color, race, or creed,
So I'll write about my table, simply out of need.
A can of cream style corn, a can of cut green beans,
Sit upon on my table, among the other things.
A pen, a knife, a roach-clip, all in disarray,
My what simple games, the human mind can play.
In the center of the table, stands a water pipe.
It stimulates my writing. Do you think it feels up tight?
It sleeps down in the cupboard feeling safe when out of sight.
It dreams about the table and the phosfloresent light.
It really loves the table. It always wants it near, but
When it's on the table, all must live in fear.
The fear of being busted, The fear of waiting jail,
The fear of stupid people who would stomp a poor cats tail.
The pen the knife, the roach-clip, must be put away.
These things are dangerous, so some people say.
I guess there was a message, With a little bit of creed.
I wrote about my table just because I felt the need.