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WILLY WONKA:
A painter needs no reason
To make a thing of art
Yes, there’s no switch to stop and start the flow
A gardener has his season
His green thumb and his heart
Don’t ask the man “why does your garden grow?”
A poet sits for hours
With words upon his tongue
He cannot help but rhyme his doom and gloom
So if you taste my flowers
You’ll see that I’m among
That certain group, that lucky troupe for whom
It’s simply second nature
To wish away the gray
To take a licorice stick and make a tree
Yes, there’s no rhyme or reason
I was simply made this way
What’s strange to you is natural to me
It’s simply second nature
To paint outside the lines
It merely is the way that I was born
You see I’ve been selected
To create the unexpected
And make each day feel just like Christmas morn
Picasso took a torso
And turned it on it’s head
It isn’t right or wrong, it’s what he felt
And Dali, even more so
Would positively dread
Explaining why his hands of time should melt
And me, I take sweet honey
And make a tasteful rose
What can I say? It’s simply what I do
Some men make pots of money
They’re happy, I suppose, but
Be grateful that for just a lucky few
It’s simply second nature
To see what isn’t there
The mind is such a wonder to explore
And though some nights I dread
All the voices in my head
I’d rather be this way then be a bore
It’s simply second nature
To dream of something new
Then wake on fire and try to sculpt each day
It’s no blessing, it’s a curse!
Wait, no, strike that and reverse
I wouldn’t have it any other way
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