You are what you are, I am what I am,
I am what you are, you are what I am
east meets west somewhere, but that’s not a poem
north cuts south just here, the intersection’s home.
Parallel lines converge if I look hard enough
the vanishing point’s real, the rest’s just a bluff
and you are what you are, I am what I am
and we meet someplace, though no-one gives a damn.
The mountain’s just a pile of atom crumbs
the city’s gone ballistic, traffic’s a bit glum
and we’re what we are, we are what we were
when freedom was love, when freedom was war.
All the roads are dust, and all flesh is grass
the world is a clan and everything must pass
and I am what you were, you are what I’ll be
and it takes a sec for you to morph to me.
I am what I am, you are what you are
north meets south someplace, in café and bazaar
and east too meets west always and everywhere
but that’s not a poem as far as I’m aware.
You are what you are, I am what I am
the diff’rence’s slim, hardly a nanogram
and I am he and she, you are we and us
but that’s not a poem, that’s not a verse.
