| Oh whilliker thistledown, angel-may-care if the pins of all dumbledom fly through the air
 and tinkle quite prinkly with scatter and scorn--
 who am I, I ask you, and how was I born?
 
 Universe, schmuniverse, big bang or no,
 let comets be vomits lit up as they go;
 let galaxies stretch till they reach golly gee,
 but where was I, why am I, who will I be?
 
 Theological thinkers and scholarly fakes
 pretend with Godthority, footnotes, and spakes,
 assuring, demurring to cover their gap,
 but all they produce is implausible crap.
 
 Oh wiffle-ball shuffle-through, devil-be-joke,
 instead of the experts, I'll hang with the folk
 who don't know from nothin' how we became we
 but never were not and will never not be.
 
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