A wig for his wig

Under review: Paul Diddy's "Cultivated Incompetence"

Let me answer verbally, with letters I mean.
Spiraled round like walking forest, jungle birds sing
echo conic physicist notions, annular things.
Circles turning circles hey and rings within rings.

Prance to the floor like Franz Boas,
colleckon tribal languages electronically,
reckon accorded an oral record;
Henry Miller lip up on a boogie woogie beat.

Once in stanza now in hearse, the worst
foretold at most too much, but less in challenge
than as such, and such, environment and trust.
Clutch thee thy art, though not its valence.

But stand on the cutting room floor, in war,
and thrust the magic of your buttons not in holes
but into suddens, ovens, covens, bowls, in love.
If I understand your thrust, or theme, or rocknroll.

If empty bellies is the curse, or worse, the terror
lies in not quite listening, and therefore
dies in warfare with the spies in respite whispering,
now sister see, the play's the thing wherein
we'll find the conscience of the king.