the po-mo slo-mo

the round earth runs from myth to fiscal fact
and back again through every kind of clime
we say to this that not to disdain tact
all things are made to fit the vagrant rhyme
i construct laws that define only themselves
that's not reality it's merely my own choice
i might as well postulate hidden elves
that do all things at my commanding voice
all knowledges are equal in their power
belief in elves as much as in natural laws
each has its time its proper place and hour
but each arises from mental choice and cause
we might as well believe that the light air
that we see as sustaining is not there