Chocolate George
Was a pussy magnet
He’d had more tang
Than Frank Sinatra
He said it was nice, so nice
And it all came from a nice place
That it was no mere gesture
But the gift of awareness
He said the algorithms of affection
Played out naturally
With no need for ceremony
Or archaic ritual
And that they were as beautiful
As they were natural
He stressed that
He was not the message
But the messenger
And there was no device
Or calculation
Behind his success
An
untouchable
He
had a definite shape
But
it was asymmetrical
He
was composed of acute
And
awkward angles
Ragged
contours
And
sharp edges
Cutting
edges
He
had always felt
At
odds with nature
a
square peg
In a
universe of round holes.
He
felt powerless
In
his predicament
There
was no panacea
No
prescription
No
discipline
Or
philosophy
To
ease his discomfort
There
was not even a name
For
whatever it was ailed him
There
was no diagnosis
For
his wayward geometry.
His
was the difficult path
And
he stumbled often
And
sometimes he fell
But
over the years
His
angles were chipped away
And
his edges were made smooth
Through
collision and erosion
So
that one day George awakened
To
discover
That
he was practically formless.
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