I planted a rose on a dungheap.
I felled a yew tree in the wood.
I buried a cat in a shoebox,
And bartered a pint of my blood.

I whistled a tune in the morning.
I barked like a dog at the moon.
I put on a bright-coloured T-shirt,
And wove a dark shroud on my loom.

I polished my specs with a dishcloth.
I sharpened my quill with a knife.
I spread out a blank sheet of paper,
And pondered the Meaning of Life.

I asked all the usual questions.
I dug deep, as if in a mine.
Till at last, with a whoop, I struck gold, found the truth,
The sole truth: I was wasting my time.

Denys E. W. Jones

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-rose-on-the-dungheap/