Simple Souls. That’s how the cookie crumbles: the more complex the system the more things that can go wrong with it. I ought to know, given the prodigious amount of things that are going kaput in, on, out and about my complex vile body. I think I’d gladly emulate the little chap in the doodle and become a single-cell organism. The only drawback I can see in this otherwise amiable state of being is that I wouldn’t be able to operate a mouse or a tablet and therefore no doodles. Then again, that would make some people very happy so it would sort of even things out, more or less. I love happy endings. And bad poetry.
- When I was a small amoeba
- Cuter than the queen of Sheba
- If trod upon I would split
- Slide, regroup and reknit
- And go back to puff my cheeba.
- When I was a small amoeba
- And I didn’t have a liver
- I could get drunk every day
- Happy, merry, free and gay
- And my pods woul’n’t even quiver.
- When I was a single cell
- Life was easy, life was swell
- Now I am eukaryotic
- Drifting around quite neurotic
- And my life is one pure hell.
- If you know what’s good for you
- You’ll stay put and not be two
- Cleave to your monadic charm
- Never try to grow an arm
- Don’t become organic stew!