who knows if the moon’s
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky–filled with pretty
people?
(and if you and i should
get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people
than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where
always
it’s
Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves
a poem by e.e. cummings
Boring. Man poetry sure is lame and not to mention a complete waste of time. Perhaps if e. e. cummings had spent more time worrying about important things chicks or being popular and less time hypothesizing the balloon content of the moon, he wouldn’t have been such a failure.