Instead of an idea, you start with words,
And let them take you where they want to go,
Like a boat appears to be moving forwards,
Ship-shape, just going with the flow,
Smooth sailing starboard and lee,
When what it’s doing’s nothing of the sort
Because it’s really floundering at sea,
And there’s a sailor in every port
Who has your number and can hardly wait
Until your ship comes in and you’re docked
For all the time you wasted going straight,
Going off habitually half-cocked.
Start with words and it never fails to happen—
You wake up dreaming in an opium den.
Robert Forrey, 2012