Be it not me to tell a fool he is a fool
Does he know he dances naked in Red square
Caked in white ochre he twirls around like in a weaving spool
Spouting delusions nonsensically, he lays his befuddled simple mind bare
As he jumps up then he spins, sways, bends, twists, then pirouette like its cool
Be it not me to say he has a stub for a tool
For many are crazed by this affliction of what\'s down there
Becoming tin gods, tyrants and oppressors, in a cruel merciless rule
Heaven helps the gifted, for the thimble oppressor becomes riddled with fear
Hurling anger and loathing, envy and jealousy, whilst enraptured with the mind of a ghoul
Be it not me to give credence to the antics of a fool
Plainly, we do not dance to same tune, nor have similar tunics to wear
For even in our world of plenty, many hapless lives are shut down by a little tool
Be it with wicked slander or iron sharpened or blazing fire, smallness knows little cheer
Clothed, naked or dancing in white ochre, a stub can cause insanity not taught in Medical school.