Where madmen ride
Roses are more red
& women pure,
Hearts fall outward
In a lively dance
& need no cure.
If logic need a cell,
The mad go free
To breathe the air,
& whatever life
They crave is theirs
& beyond despair,
Or if windmills turn
Against their lance
Or heated charge,
Or sheep to villains
Or to ogres change
& grow most large,
What matters then
Is knowing how
To break the fall,
Putting cushions down
Beneath the saddle-
Sores & gall…
Against great height
Where dumb-shows play
Their pantomime,
The sane look up
& sprain their necks,
While madmen climb.
