My body is built like an old Yankee tree--
so year after year I'll continue to be--
tall and thin and oh so protracted
with a mind so fine and ever so abstracted
from the sense called common to all of the masses;
I train with Montaigne and push up my glasses.
Like a tower in Babel I've mastered the art
of building toward heaven completely apart
from wisdom, from knowledge, from hu-mil-ity
so try as I might I'll continue to be
an old tree, a grey tree that's bent with self-pity
needing to fall to make way for the City
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