Some monastic people say that if you can forgo enough
That you can lose the urge to call some other people “bro” and stuff.
To do this is a sort of psychologicalish double-bluff
That, if applied correctly, leaves you feeling rather strong and tough.
On the other hand our non-monastic colleagues like to say
Pursuing earthly pleasures is, to happiness, a surer way
And that forgoing stuff is very (insert synonym for gay)
And that, through your indulgences, you’re guaranteed to feel okay.
I am of a middle-ground, a kind of tertiary school
For those who think that happiness comes not from being tough or cool
But that the key unlocking all the treasures of this happy stuff
Is “Everything is perfect if you keep your standards low enough.”
I saw Descartes sitting at the bar.
I asked “Can I buy you a beer?”
Descartes replied “I think not,”
Then I watched him disappear.
I met an Indian guy on Tinder,
A philosopher named Deepinder.
I couldn’t understand most of what he said
So he said “Date my brother Shallowinder instead.”
“My feelings matter”
Screamed the important human
And a few quadrillion cubic lightyears
Of hyper-intelligent space blobs
Smiled and reminisced
On when they thought the same thing.
Two or three universes away
The process repeated.
Everything in life worth knowing
Can be found in a hard-boiled egg.
If you don’t see how that’s possible
Your name probably isn’t Greg.
There are no starless evenings
And never will there be.
Nothing stops existing
Just because you cannot see.
If you call a glass half-empty
Or say one plus three is two
You do not hurt reality
Except the part that’s you.
And if you look up at the sky
Upon some cloudy night
And say the stars are lovely
When there’s not a star in sight
That doesn’t make you foolish
And you’ll only seem a dope
To those who never knew of faith
And have forgotten hope.
I pledge to always be the fool
Who calls a crow a dove,
Who calls the wind the breath of God,
Whose sin is too much love.
While I may not know what’s real
I know that I know not
So why not choose to fill the void
With one more happy thought?
I think that great philosophers
Who from the old days came
Were the ones who didn’t laugh
At each others’ stupid names.
Think of how the commons laughed
And asked Ptolemy why
They had to spell his name
Starting with a silent pi.
Think of how these silly names
Through laughter would disable those
Who sought to set their Platos
And forkos on the tableos.
Think of poor Epictetus
The flat-chested stoic
And poor Heraclitus
Whose parents misspelled “heroic.”
I hope there’ve Bentham fun times
Locke’d within this rant.
Some days I’m very Thoreau
But today I said “I Kant.”