A magical thinker imbibes his pills,
swirls dusky powders and potions in jars,
and knows a glass of yeast will cure his ills,
essence of earth will empty him of tars.
He believes the truth rests upon the tongue
of friends and wise ladies on the telly.
The rock song sells the benefits of love,
and gives him smooth, soft grooves on his belly.
The stars steered gold-crowned knaves of distant times,
astro-charts sold their every mood a flower.
His rice and beans and soy can turn to slime,
a spirit rap on knuckles leaves him dour.
They say you have got to follow reason.
He says, sure but in the proper season.
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