Welcome to Billy’s Bloggerel, a web-log of doggerel…
Where do Ideas come from?
Part Eight: Frolics
As I remember, Francis, you did promise
To help me close my treatise on ideas.
But here I find you like Sir John the Hog
Wallowing in wet clay and a fog
Of your own making. Why?
Why? Why he says? The busy bard asks why?
Why because there is nothing more to say.
This toying with ideas is done. Over!
Where do ideas come from you ask and ask?
Birth, death, anger, love, chance connection,
Dreams of course and you even admit theft.
The tally is as told as Noah’s roll.
What other ways are there? Let me count them.
None. None. And yet you insist on looking
For more reasons without reason. End it
And let us enjoy idleness and frolics.
Aye frolics. And romps, larks, capers, gambols,
Foolery, frisks, skips, and scrambles!
Any idle end to end your endless quest.
You are wise and yet a fool. Clear yet dim.
True yet mistaken. Pointed yet blunted.
The ringmaster and yet the baited bear.
This is some riddle. You hope to tease me
Once more into your game. But I fence-sit!
I am lately sworn against sweat and toil.
I intend to be the piglet and play.
Ha! You have spoken and yet did not hear.
As aware as a hare with hair in his ear.
You have hunted the answer like hound
Barked it out but not harked the sound.
Oh out with it! I am a pig quite foxed,
And cat-curious to know what it is.
Where do ideas come from, you great ass?
For when we work at play, we play at work
And then ‘tis not work at all, but play.
That much is clear if crystal is now clay.
Wisdom comes from acting the Tarlton fool,
For in jesting we gestate comedy,
For in tussling we tease out tragedy,
For in horsing we hurdle history.
With quick tongues we twist fixed language and by
Jibbering, we work, that is play, with words.
With quick minds we trust instinct, and not to ink,
For in play we must react, and must not think.
Play does not censure, or define what is wrong.
Even the patrons play, for they play along.
Friend. You are true and I the happy fool.
We shall be fellow fools, Touchstone and Feste.
Yea, let us both wear a suit of russet
And a buttoned cap. We will play the pipe
And tabor and while away this day
Playing ‘til we play out another play.