lyre rye

oh, Macbeth !

i heard a lyre humming a tune of time 

it went like this 

In the pastoral valley beyond the stormy sea

I hear of a lad adrift

floating among greenery he sings of his family

his heart, amber like mine

in the field with dreamy eyes

made friends with those younger than he

always he looks at the sky 

afraid of losing the children in the rye

concocts a song of many voices for assurance 

that which he starts, "I'm old, I'm old" 

Tom, "but I'm not,"

Die, "I'm not"

Edie, "you are bold, you are bold"

Afra, "and yet we're all cold,"

Doses, "so cold"

harmonizing into a lullaby he sings in all six voices

A mind, wrapped into his body

like mine, like mine, like mine 

and then the lyre tied g and f

again and again

a stroke of g and f

g and f

as if besides g and f he had no other tool 

like from g and f there was no other fool

Then I took his stool and yanked it from beneath him

Because this hymn I could no longer endure

-fool, meaning this is all fools we are all fools it would not hurt if we tried other foolery too but we want to so desperately stick to our own, to the foolery we are used to