Mr. Mose

In the deep belows of the great grottos
where it never rains and it never snows
there sits a man perfectly froze
in a peaceful meditative pose.

Why is he there? Well, I suppose
he's had his share of worldly woes
the thousand constant little blows
that break your heart and bloody your nose.
It gets old sometimes, heaven knows.

So, who could blame you if you chose
to call it quits and join old Mose
who sits in pure, unspoiled repose
stale as a pile of unwashed clothes;

While here upstairs, on life goes
and guileless lovers play and pose
and take time taking off their clothes
and daddy shrinks and baby grows;

While there below still sits old Mose
and mossy knolls grow twixt his toes
and he never reaps what he never sows
safe from all lifes slings and arrows;

And on his head a stalagmite grows
a smaller one grows on his nose
Drip drop, drip drop, it grows and grows
Who knows what thoughts this likely sows?