A Man Called Da-da cannot be perceived.
Sure, he’s middle-aged and a little overweight and has little hair or sense left
but Da-da's ok with it.
What choice does he have?
He’s pretty much INVISIBLE to all
save maybe other Mr. Moms
and little monsters who can’t find Baby Horsey.
Smaller than an electron,
Da-da contains uncounted universes of naked absurdity.
If powerful men and women
could remain centered in their inner Da-da-ness,
all things would be in harmony.
All sippy cups would be located before they smell.
All Baby Horseys would boast GPS.
All playgrounds would be rife with doves and bunnies
that someone else would have to pick-up after.
All Da-das would be at peace,
drinking Guinness from refrigerated taps.
And someone else would make the beany weenies.
Of course this is all a lie.
Inner Da-da-ness is rife with denial.
When you call Da-da names
know that they don’t stick.
Da-da is a master of selective deafness.
When you finally put him in an institution
just tell him it’s a three-star resort.
Knowing when to commit Da-da
will avoid any danger.
All Da-da-ness will end all sanity
as syrup flows off the table.
[Excerpted from Da-da's unpublished third book, The Tao of Da-da (or "Strong Winds CAN Blow All Day, Depending on How Much Sugar Has Been Ingested"). Void where prohibited. Change your bandages once a week.]