there is a phrase that old men say,
which, to me, was always fey,
for how can knowledge be a dangerous thing,
and pray, what sorrow could it ever bring?
but oft, of late, a look at the heart,
and it's bleeding, as it's been stuck by a dart,
and you try, you try, not to give a fart,
"fuck you", comes the answer, ever so tart.
you keep yourself busy, to block the mind,
keep it occupied, you fear what it'll find,
but in a moment it comes, and it comes real bad,
and to be honest, it hurts, not just a tad.
for knowledge gained, is one never lost,
to not acknowledge it, one must be of frost.
but it's not for me, whatever the cost,
and sometimes I wish I'd done a Dr. Faust.
and then it strikes me, again those old men,
accompanied by the shriek of an irritating wren,
for while knowledge is power, ignorance is bliss,
and at long last, I finally understand this.
The deed is done, the act is past,
I seek to forget, and forget fast,
for time will forge surely, as will come to bear,
a set of blinkers, that I will choose to wear.
Never again will I question an old man's wisdom,
For their phrases are lore, in every kingdom,
to the future I look, and all seems bright,
then what is that in my eye, that's impeding my sight?
