Seldom Pure and Never Simple:
Fawlty Thoughts
There’s freedom in the speaking of the truth.
I know we’re not supposed to think that such
A thing exists. It’s fashionably uncouth,
Post-Modernism says, to use the crutch
Of common sense. Too many minds have come
With far too subtle, wise philosophies
For us plain folk to extrapolate from
Plain facts and straightforward analyses
The things we need to know. As Manuel whines,
“I know nothing.” If we offer up sense
From mind or heart, philosophy refines
This to the message, “You are dense.”
To me it seems, my darling, there’s no hope.
We won’t prove love, but blunder, yearn, and grope.