I'd rather read a nonsense verse
than a poet laureate's lines.
I'd rather drive my mother's hearse
ignoring speeding signs,
and rattle through the countryside
disturbing nesting geese,
than barter for a buxom bride
while traveling in Greece.
I'd rather paint an old red barn
than draw a floating duck.
I'd rather hear a sailor's yarn
than be down on my luck,
and watch the desert sun go down
observing camels play,
in lieu of wearing royalty's crown
or molding feet in clay.
I'd rather track the three-toed sloth
than take a trip to France.
I'd rather trap a tiger moth
than stripe a zebra's pants,
and cook linguini when in Rome
instead of brewing tea,
and write a ponderous legal tome,
than spend my life at sea.
And if tattoos adorn my arm,
and if I yield to nature's charm,
And marry my rotund school-marm,
and operate an aardvark farm,
And view the world with mild alarm,
yet cause no one the slightest harm,
Or sprinkle coins along the shore,
or trudge along a British moor,
Or study why gorillas snore,
or question things that most ignore,
Or dream about the lost Lenore,
or whirl in life's revolving door,
I'd do these things (but nothing more)
óbecause, of course, the rest's a bore.