Sometimes when we speak, although it’s words
They are at the level of the screams of birds
Because it’s all in words don’t mean it’s language
Remember all that screaming does minds damage
Words are truly signs and symbols perfect
But what they point to may have its own defects
The imaginary, wordless and imperfect
The real in words resigned to own the phallic.
Symbols are deep wells with built in buckets
We had one but someone must have struck it
Some thought it was the call to evening worship
While rabbits bored holes through my mother’s turnips
Meta-language,language and the babble
Let’s decide we all are more than rabble
How my heart sings 