détrop, my words,

détrop,

he is a brilliant, beautiful, man,

but,

most of his brilliance lies in the words of another,

where are your words ! my brother, my friend,

you have given me breath,

but, in this hour,

i give you

more than you bargain for,

détrop, my friend

where are your thoughts, my friend

When I capture a word, do I call it my own

But how do I claim it

In length, width or tone

And from who do I take it

Can I ask them the same

What is this thing

Did you give it its name,

Where did he get it

Who put it there

What is its origin

Did it come from thin air,

In every man’s mouth

Lies a parcel of truth

Into his head it went

In the time of his youth,

But never can a man call something his own

The only thing different perhaps is the tone

Never ask a man to pull a word from his hat

As history will laugh

Upon the word it has spat,

Nothing is mine and nothing is yours

Words wash up on infinite shores

They were not made

And they cannot be kept

Upon a dictionary and pen, a wise man once slept,

So you see dearest TUM

There is nothing new

All you can ask

Is to stand in the shoe

Of a man who will speak

A small parcel of truth

From the letter, the book, and the telephone booth

When he takes off his hat

Do not be fooled

Upon this deception

Many men have drooled

To believe they have made

What has already been

And they pass this tradition with blotter and pen…

Now you sing a tone I understand. Tell me that is not philosophy, and I will never say a word again.