Here he was. Alone. In the Garden of Peripeteia. He sighed. He cried. He'd thought he was so clever? He wasn't. Thought he'd got life all worked out? He hadn't. Thought he knew the ways of the world? He didn't. So here he was standing, now: Sans friends. Sans phone. Sans wallet. Sans trousers. Happy? Nope. Wiser but sadder? Yep. A puddle of sagacious sick On the floor of a taxi. Images pulsing through his head. The grief was palpable. The guilt was downright chewy. Besieged, he was By a battalion of sorrows; His face chock-full of sobs. He got it, now: No need to sneer; No need to think he knew best; He knew better than that, now. He'd been a shit-slinger And a victim of the same. But now, having had The shit kicked out of him He was no longer full of shit. So the Garden Gates swung open And he gratefully rejoined Friends and others, Having regained The greatest prize of all: Humanity.