Twelve left to go to Bliss,
the magic number as proclaimed
one thousand, some are bad,
and some do please me very much,
who cares if others like them,
I did not write them (probably) ,
for them, but for myself, as an analysis,
to fix the mind without a shrink.

I try (I do, Scout's honour) to be kind
just like Uriah who is really too much,
I would shake hands with him whenever,
and what time, it is a vacuum that he,
-no doubt about it- fills with oxygen,
thus to restore the world to what it's been
so many centuries and with its own projection
for a sweet future not encumbered by today.

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poems-8/