People Aren't Books, You Know

People aren't books, you know, Not plush, and not teddy bears. They like a tasty bit of porridge, To stuff their guts, so to speak. You can't read them like that, in one gulp. Under a hard little scalp they hide All sorts of little thoughts About the bumps life knocked into them. They love to split up into groups. They're scared of suddenly turning into a corpse. They crowd round when someone grabs a megaphone And rattles off something in stupid-speak. Sometimes, by the looks of it — a ram. But start reading — a whole novel! Shame the focus rarely gets sharp, But that kind lasts long, and they're rare. Here and there our body will Condemn that others judge everyone, Talk about colds and lechery. All in all, people are such people.