To the Men In Lab Coats

to the men in lab coats with horns like unto goats, an open confession of a minor isotope: I -- so -- Hope that a day shall dawn when men no longer long for the things that do not belong and are, oh so wrong for mine and your and his and her song. Have you heard the song we sing? Like a toad's song on a summer night, or wedding bells that ring, for the virgin in white, pure as the driven snow? No? Know what? The toad hoards the dream to sing with a voice not broken and a chorus not of croaking but alas! he keeps choking on the flies of his own lies as SHE (the queen mother) belies, bequeathed yet bespoken to a king, comely, and oft misspoken. I (not one to spread misgivings and false learnings), I give you, Miss, a token. A token of a key in a minor chord for the song worth singing from Hell's lowest floorboard to Heaven's own pearly door. Take it and run, never to show a soul but place it safely in the hole in your face and swallow it whole. In your belly it will thrive -- half dead but all alive -- until the time is right and the beat is clear. Then you will belt your song for the Universe to hear. Sing it strong and carry the notes so long. Doubt it not, for you cannot be wrong. Know ye now that from whence the world was frozen -- that you, my dear, were already pre-chosen and the path for you was already paved that through this song of mine and yours and his and hers, thou woman, through your song mankind shall be saved.