He who without the Muse's madness in his soul comes knocking at the door of poesy and thinks that art will make him anything fit to be called a poet, finds that the poetry which he indites in his sober senses is beaten hollow by the poetry of madmen.                                            Plato

Who makes these changes?

I shoot an arrow right.

It lands left.

I ride after a deer and find myself

chased by a hog.

I plot to get what I want and end up in prison.

I dig pits to trap others

and fall in.

I should be suspicious of what I want.   Rumi

Say, that's a peppy rhythm. I've got the funk in my trousers for sure.                        Space Ghost