Pete, Who Said He Knew How To Make Friends With Ants

Closes his eyes to the world living solely inside his own head

Drums fingers on a table made of mushrooms sitting on a chair made of bread

He's a mad hatter lying in wait with a gift for clever chatter 

Spent a summer hiding in a stolen amusement ride on an Iowa farmstead 

Can't recall his own name sometimes so refers to himself as Acid Cracker

Reads the words printed on warning labels as esoteric poetry

Can't drive a pedal car but understands Lobachevskian geometry 

Reads Naruda out loud in the voice of a toothless drunken linebacker

Without hesitation he jumps to cockamamie conspiratorial conclusions

Never doubts for a second the validity of his microdot-bred delusions

Riffs on absolute personal freedom as the basis of his political ideal

But decries individual desires and professes a disbelief in revolutions 

Occasionally he ponders opening a confidence scheme themed bar

Call it the Bamboozler and feature drinks named after scams and grafter

But everytime he presents his plan it's greeted with non-stop laughter

From risk adverse bankers and financiers who view it as their abattoir

Acid Cracker, he self-referentially states, always plays the fool

Proclaims it's a much better way to hide than jumping in a cesspool

Everybody who knows him admits on that point he's right

However, everybody also labels him a certified maniacal tool 

Never one to mind his manners much less stay the course

His intentions are to cause disruption, maybe even shatter

Each and every charlatan's tricks, at least those that really matter

If he can't do it by wits alone he's considered resorting to force

He disagrees whenever people claim he needs to see a shrink

Tells all his detractors their disapproval stems from being afraid to think

Labels them elitists and challenges them to prove their assertations

Smiling while whistling love songs and writing verses in disappearing ink