What I thought I heard the singer singing was
 I don’t know if the sky’s becoming blue comes from God
or if the color that makes the day blue might come from your eyes.
That, I really did feel, was truly a romantic expression of wonder.
But I could not help adding that I remain skeptical.
For how do I know if the supposed supreme being cited even exists?
Or if the perception of celestial azure is not just another optical illusion?
Perchance the very blueness of the heavens itself constitutes the divine.
And the reflections of admired vision may be just a form of diversion.
In any case, we might all remain less restive
if songs simply did not prompt such divination.
                        

This old hot tub of an existence
just will not do
The precarious entrance over
an ever slippery edge
preview of an equally edgy exit
The tricolor illumination that diverts
instead of making something clear
The forced heat of a hundred degrees
yet small fractions of action angles
A filtration system that actually defies
your above-average intelligence and such
plus the jet ski water rushing all about
while a cold zephyr arrives to greet you
as you decide to get out of the unit
to take the electric shock 
upon touching the prohibited electric panel
				and shut-off device