Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf dix onze douze
Ein zwei drei vier funf sechs sieb' acht neun zehn elf zwölf
Sitting down to write a poem about nothing
Will I finish by writing it about something?
With skill comes the power to express easily
Taking away the need to say something of weight
Or does it allow me to explore new places
The likes of which I never could have reached before?
Is the measure of skill the esteem of others?
If it sells, then it is perforce of some value?
Salesmen are capitalism's shameful dæmons
Whose unrewarded toil props up the secret lie
If it does not rest upon your local store's shelves
And there are no TV ads, you should ignore it
Does no one buying my product mean I'm worthless?
The lie of perfect information rears its head
Does an unseen hand keep all the salesmen away
Or do they do they decide to stay away on their own?