I am no poet like the Greeks. My verses are not what a wise man seeks. Here I am to write what I do know. Of plants and flowers and things that grow. And music, strummed and sung. From one or many a lung. I am not gifted with words. My home is among the fields and the birds. Whose song in the morning arouseth me. With their lovely tune and sweet melody. Dost inspire me to make music of mine own.

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Reproduces, and eventually dies. Instead, what you get is a tsunami of chaos and disorder. Should I try to stop being a barnacle? One of my philosophy profess.

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