My fine boy

Wisk away

Wisk away comfort

The notion of it

With a flick of your wrist

It is not

I repeat, is not

A necessary thing

No

It is rather

An overused comma

A nervous um

Highlighted incessantly

As the big hand is here

And the little hand is now

So many needless things

Are a civilation’s whimsy

And their total shame

A civilization’s giggle

And their epitaph

Such is comfort

Oh King Comfort

Oh Lord Me

Boy, hear me

This place is too torched

And the end is too near

For you to think

Of comfortable things

Would you just please

Dunk yourself seven times

Get muddy

Get wet

Wash

Sing and play and lead

Dont microphone the kid

Any longer

You squeaky thing

Be brave and do yout job

Your comfort

Has never been required