No pending lawsuits; no fall from grace
I’ll be straight up and right in your face
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ I’m wishin’ good health for you.
I’m not a fisherman who can’t catch a fish
I’m not a musician who hates to musish
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ my mission is tried and true
I won’t prescript you with no reason why
I won’t inject you unless you might die
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ permission shall be my cue
I get enough sleep; my libido’s in check
My heart will not pound if I gaze down your neck
I’m big on privacy; I won’t tell a soul
Of your bad breath or massive malignant mole
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ contrition is mine if I do
My work is my practice; I learn as I go
My patients are teachers; there’s a lot I should know
‘Ain’t mis-physishin,’ your condition is up to you.
The body is an unmanned probe Remotely controlled by the realest self Made from the substance of what is explored It encounters another so as not to get bored Expressive of meaning like a book on a shelf But paper thin like an onion skinned robe
The body makes sense of alien ground It does so engaging the self that is ‘local’ That self is the ego. Its purpose, in fact, Is to translate the true self with intent intact Within range the command module then becomes vocal Relishing in new terrain it has found
Since there’s no one inside – just a window to Home We lock onto signals that traverse our space When Eye meets with Eye a connection is made In Heaven with counterparts proud and well-played We flood here en masse to partake of this place With robotic abandon we are destined to roam
So, where in this puzzle does ‘Houston’ fit in? Is Mission Control where we go when we die? To some, it’s a mystery; to others, a known Yet it matters to ego whose true colors are shown When caught loving earth life and flying high Despite this world’s gravity as it wears others thin.