Folly on Folly

completely off the cuff,

with not a whit of "form" to it

nor any stilted stuff,

but so uncanned and out-of-hand

you'll know it can't be true

I picked its parts to show my smarts,

as common speakers do.

You know the type. The scoundrels swipe

some thoughts they'd heard before,

then sweat to craft a "working draft"

for thirty years or more;

yet when, at last, their labors past,

these pedants rise to speak,

they boast, "These strokes of genius, folks,

took less than half a week."

No, I don't deal in scholar-spiel.

It's always been my habit,

whenever I've a point to drive,

to come right out and blab it.

So don't expect a speech "correct"

where sectioning is meant.

I'll show no seams between my themes,

nor anywhere indent

to blaze a way through what I say.

My wit would only wallow

within the normal format formal

speakers have to follow.

What's more, besides, I need no guides:

I am, myself, my topic.

You all can see the parts of me --

your vision's not myopic.

I'm nothing less that what you'd guess,

and nothing more, so look:

I'm just the jolly goddess, Folly,

not to be mistook.

and plays the public fellow

"in much the way an ass would play

concertos on a cello."

That wouldn't be so bad if he,

in other contexts, fit;

but when he tries to join the guys,

he's still your basic twit.

When he attends a bash, it ends.

A chronic party poop,

he either sits in silent snits

or argues with the group.

But if, by chance, he deigns to dance,

observe his clumsy prancing.

He bumpy-bumps, he humpy-humps,

"just like a camel dancing."

Or take him where a public fair

is running lewd and loud;

his face alone will cause a groan

to roll across the crowd!

This Cato-prude, whom all the crude

activities offend,

will exit quickly, acting prickly,

not about to bend.

Suppose some folks are sharing jokes:

his entrance strikes them dumb --

"the silent act" -- as if, in fact,

the fabled wolf had come.

When he must make a purchase, take

a trip, complete a deal,

negotiate a friend's estate,

or plan a simple meal;

when he, like you, must daily do

the basic, the mundane --

he's no damned good! A block of wood

takes over for his brain.

A classic klutz, no ifs or buts,

his benefits are none

to country, clan, the common man,

himself, or anyone,

and this because his work withdraws

the sage from real events

and out of sync with men who think

with basic common sense.

It's no surprise that folks despise

a man they think is smart;

it's bound to be, for they and he

are miles, and minds, apart.

so far apart it's plain

why each will swear, to clear the air,

the other is insane.

[I'll say, aside, "insane," applied

to modify "the pious,"

rings truer than with "common man."

(Excuse that bit of bias.)]

Okay. That said, I'll move ahead --

in words quite few (for me) --

to ask: How could "the highest good"

end up insanity?