I don't think this mess
Was ever meant
To be tidied
I don't think the sheep
Dressed up in wolf-skin
Were ever meant to make
The grade
Out amongst the barnacles
Staring out to sea
We were designed
Loosely
And with plausibility
But we were never
Meant to be
And now that we are
And now that we have
And now that we can
We bob worthlessly
Somewhere between
Life and death
And scratch our
Simple heads
With our monkey-hammers
And wondered how
We ever managed
To stay
Afloat