This aging graying piece of driftwood
Bobbing along the stream, at the mercy of the wind
Forever the dusky twilight mind
Alone in a crowd, this stone ranger stares back from the mirror
A lone drummer beats a foreign cadence
Sadly, this sponge dances like the deaf
And pines in his box, to which he holds the only key
Blind to the prism he is, that only others see
Forever buoyed by smiling sheep in friendly guises
If it weren't for the sheep
I'd be my own stone ranger, says he
But to the sheep, that I be
At times the sponge casts the blanket off
Like Linus on a sunny day
Showing the cracks, come what may
But only when the moon is blue
If only the sponge had another hand
Or a working hand at all
Better yet a granted wish to be a little tall
But the sponge's world is an imperfect place
And most days he struggles with the pace
So he returns dejected, to his box
And hardly moves at all

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