We pick our battles as we go,
and win and lose in tandem:
truisms that we think we know
are right or wrong, at random.
Our faithful squire is an ingrown view,
much less help than hindrance,
for while we ponder what to do
he is in a drink-fueled trance.
Our books have all been turned to ash,
and Rocinante is acting randy:
when goatherds cause our beds to crash,
common sense would be quite handy.
To preserve our ancient view of life,
and enhance our exalted station,
we’ve embraced the philosophy of strife,
and intellectual masturbation.
We ride madly around in confusion,
seeking castles in the air,
and come to the sad conclusion
that windmills just don’t care.
