All of man, all of man, all of man.
Who can be man of all, man of all and
Yet not man of himself, he who swims
In this bottle of mirth, daily drawing
Down the birth of its opening as though
The fount of youth will be found at last
In the hauntings of a hundred stumbling
Nights of anger’s post mortem drunken past.
Forgotten rigors of swearing we were Gods,
Or God’s chosen people wandering along in
Vast wastelands just beyond the happy song
Of your promised land – consciousness’ lush
And fertile ground, a home to settle down,
Plant our weary souls for the final known time
And escape the circular life of this hidden inner grind.
All of man, all of man, all of man! Who can be
All of man, man of all, yet not man of himself
In the fall, man of himself in the drowning fall.