COMMON SENSE
For ages men have pondered sacred questions
Like how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.
My own preoccupations have been less lofty
But no less concerned with the situation we're in.
When I was a little girl I used to wonder
If I were standing naked on the North Pole
Or only in my panties, how many blankets
Would it take to keep me warm and comfortable?
When I suggested five-hundred to Mommy,
She said, "That should be plenty," and so I slept.
Had the men with the angel question come to Mother
And had she applied her that-should-be-plenty precept,
I wonder if the sages would have rested
Like me tucked in clear up to their bearded chins
And in the morning barely remembered the question
Except that it had something to do with pins.
I wish all five-year-olds and theologians
And all who find themselves susceptible
To endless questions that become obsessions
Such as how many casualties are acceptable
Would bring their strange conjectures to my mother.
And all their careful estimates and stuff
For my mom will tolerate a lot of nonsense
But she's very good at when enough's enough!
