Type-O

What quantity of order do you wish to impose
Getting eat-up by mistakes in my prose
Ignore the content that speaks from the soul
You'll never bestow order on that black whole
What are your rules in the end?
Try to comprehend: chaos is on the bend.
Type-O, gives the flow, that aesthetically attracts.
There are no ends and lines are circles.
Why question, then, my illiterate way
Abstract artists have the same to say.
Expressed in paint or through the form.
This is the place where my words are born
This very same place were the world is erased.
Spring of my wisdom's well, so tootle off;
now be on your way, i have but one final thing to say.
Learn to un-spell, it'll serve ye well
Ditch the broom too and that pointed hat
if you can't see through, that its all a trap
Take back your mind, demand your life back.
If you can't manage that, at least try to laugh.
Gramaticaster oh. . .what a disaster
verbiscent, longer than the words you lent
But still you insist on supervious resent.