The Dreaming Tree

When I was ten and four,
I read this poem by a bloke called Tagore,
He raved and ranted all along,
Being the stereotypical meandering bong,
About the inane and stupid vocations he'd choose,
So I decided to sit back and step into his shoes,
Grow a beard,name an ashram and be a playa,
Now mortally afraid of another bong called Shreya.

Anyway, I sat and thought and thought and thought,
Till my heart and brain were one big blood clot,
For unlike the man I had no hope,
Of being a watchman or sweeper or even the pope,
I believed in beatniks and job satisfaction,
Somewhere in the way, a little bit of action,
Be proud, be loud and hold up your pinky,
Gyrate you hips and tell them you're kinky.

So you see the dreams I had of love and hate,
Seemed awfully difficult to satiate,
Till I realized there was one possible profession,
That would overlook all my previous education,
There'd be issues and questions to moot,
When I put somebody's mouth in someone else's foot,
Because if I must live through this anarchy,
A teleprompter I must be.

Oh what joy I'd be sure to find,
When American presidents speak my mind,
When climatic conferences invite Al Gore,
He will bravely claim his butt is sore,
Or when the porn stars ooh and aah,
I'll make them recite the Casabianca,
And they sure would've made the right pick,
Because now the boy will stand on a burning dick.

Of course the newest controversy courters,
Will be the wicked TV reporters,
For now they and their TV crews,
Will not present but make the news,
Their producers will fume and flush,
While I get them to incessantly blush,
Boy, whatever it be I promise I wont be a bore,
Not like that other dude Tagore.