I do not fit in the organised world. 
Where schedules plot our fate. 
Where that will be this and this will be that.
Where heads screwed on straight hail the great bureaucrat. 
Where the future that's served is a diet of dates. 

—

Now dates can be helpful and dates have their place.
The same can be said for time slots and blocks. 
But to fill every corner and inch of this space, 
To sit there all day and stuff dates in your face.
To plunder your future is to learn very quick,
That this diet of dates is making you sick. 

—

Though perhaps it's not true, what I said about you. 
And perhaps it's more about me. 
In fact all about me, as you well clear can see. 
About which one of us is actually free. 
About order's firm grasp on competency. 
Or whether any of this factors into my dream.
If I do not fit in the organised world ~
What good is the knowledge that its centre is pearled?