without a malady, free from diseases.
In his prig barn yards over the cliff he rolls over to sleep,
in indifference to the groaning misery and he does what pleases.
He is of immaculate reason and faculties immense,
can shut everything out with silent tears and silent pauses,
and never thinks to reason with issues intense.
Yes, the one whose bliss is rooted in uprooted self applause.
He always slices his melon in three,
He eats two of them with pleasure and smile.
And forgets the third while it rots for a while,
and later blames the rotten fruit on the poor tree.
He blissfully believes in himself and his own righteousness,
discards the dirty sheet and lives each day.
He never cares for the pile or his own foolishness,
first slaughters the sheep and then picks lambs to slay.
He would always be right and would always survive,
He would have health, strength, peace and his life would go on.
With nothing to pull him back, forward he would always strive,
Hail him. He, yes he is the new world's paragon.
**Written with deep apologies to Alexander Pope's "Ode on Solitude"**
