Dear Superfluousness, 

 

It's funny how a little sullen silence 

can isolate the soul 

 

It's funny how much a weathered wicker 

basket 

within it's hull can hold 

 

It's funny how our written words 

rarely convey truthfull tales 

 

It's funny how a funny fact 

has never cured any ales 

 

Why should such a thing exist 

if it is so unnecessary? 

 

Why should not the basket spill 

its contents, uncomplementary? 

 

Within the weathered wicker 

watch wonderous 

woodland wolves 

 

Waiting for their chance to strike 

the wasted from this world. 

 

Somewhere in the sullen silence 

science sevens

sneaking serpents 

 

Supposing they might take some food 

of mankind's richest servants. 

 

Now, if you can't see the humor in that,

you surely must 

be blind. 

 

Or perhaps there was none at all

and they've fooled us 

all in kind.