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A precisely angled cobalt chair
balances genius on its lap.
“Too simple, too local, too provincial”,
the thin tan man proclaims about religious Cosmology.
His hands churn, polishing each penny
of good sense that pops from his lips.
Then crackled eyes spring, flinging
their flattened umbrellas up and
finally, the brilliance fades.
“I’ve got to stop somewhere,
I’ll leave you something to imagine.”
Pre-Final Edits (before giving in to McFee's comments, which I didn't agree with)
A precisely angled cobalt chair
holds genius in its pocket.
The subject sits bent, inviting
his visitors for further prodding:
“Too simple, too local, too provincial”,
the thin sun-scorn man proclaims.
Laymen speak from a mind laid back,
Yet there is nothing lay about him.
[At least, the Swedes don’t think so]
His hands churn, polishing each penny
of good sense that pops from his lips.
Then crackled eyes spring, flinging
their flattened umbrellas up and
finally, the brilliance fades.
“I’ve got to stop somewhere,
I’ll leave you something to imagine.”