To My Friend The Artist - Poem by Tolu Akinwole
How you hate that word!
But are we not mad -
Mad like the he-goat
That slept with his mother?
You are mad,
I am mad,
We are all mad -
Mad like that farmer
That stole another's sweat.
But we needn't deny it,
God knows we are mad
Both of us, yes, we are;
Our instruments make us so.
And don't we build worlds with them?
Mad we are and let's be mad;
It's excellent just to be mad -
Not like the farmer, nor like the he-goat,
But like the sharp teeth that bites the tongue.
Comments about To My Friend The Artist by Tolu Akinwole
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You