I’m used to weird. A cuckoo in the nest,
the black sheep in my family, who veered
away from their conditions on my quest,
I’m used to weird.

A beatnik when the hippies all appeared –
an anarchist against all guns – unstressed
when solitude and all-alonely neared –

Conservative but radical, and blessed
with anti-chaos thoughts that won’t be steered …
Abhorring vote results, I’ve self-assessed:
I’m used to weird.