If I was a miracle worker, -and I certainly hope that I was,- I'm sure that I'd escape my straightjacket, And plunder the Universe. Who says that I haven't? You don't know. But I do, Or else, I think I do, And so the conundrum goes on, To multiple places. They are all guesses, And there are only three of them. He's mad. He's lying. It happened. Ah, Reality, you sour old puss, Let out some of your verbal torrent, Onto us the lucky few.