The Idiot's Song Poem by David Keplinger

They're not in my way. They let me be.
They say that nothing can happen to me.
How good.
Nothing can happen. All things flow
from the Holy Ghost, and they come and go
around that particular ghost (you know)—,
how good.

No, we really mustn't imagine there is
any danger in any of this.
If course, there's blood.
Blood is the hardest. Hard as stone.
Sometimes I think that I can't go on—.
(How good.)

Oh look at that beautiful ball over there:
red and round as an Everywhere.
Good that you made it be.
If I call, will it come to me?

How very strange the world will appear,
blending and breaking, far and near:
friendly, a little bit unclear.
How good.