It’s crazy fun,
Chaotic even,
With flowers and sands,
And a jungle of youngins,
Horton’s a king,
A joker to some,
A thoughtful elephant,
A beautiful soul,
And then there’s Whoville,
A speck on his trunk,
A world almost akin,
To that planet Blisstonia,
They live and they love,
And enjoy every bit,
Knowing not and never caring,
That they live in a speck,
It’s cosmic convergence,
Funny how it can be,
That in this ball of dust,
There can be a thousand worlds,
Looking up to us all,
Maybe hid in a stream,
On a rapid that juts,
Maybe just in that mold,
By my bin full of trash,
Maybe even beside,
Every can that I kick,
So maybe to them,
I’m the Fuhrer or Stan,
Horton’s the soul,
A man’s holy model,
A being that I wish,
I could be in a heartbeat,
Eccentric for sure,
But thoughtful and smart,
A heart made of gold,
A voice like a stream,
I zone in and out of my world to that space,
And think for a second the burden of privilege,
A joy and a curse,
A gift I wouldn’t pass,
Cause now man I know,
To be big is to be responsible.
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