This oracle of ours resides
Somewhere deep inside
The prison cells of hell
Where they tell tall tales.
He’s condemned to doing time
For his life of crime.
You would think he’d be the last
To hold wisdom fast.
But we know now from experience,
He knows more than most.
What he does with lenience
Deserves a pruno toast.
To him always come
Those still young and dumb,
Seeking insight into things
That make young ears ring.
The hearts of people he knows well,
Like a rat knows smells.
A heart as dark as deepest night,
He makes room to set things right.
Steeped within this errant viciousness,
He obscures finesse.