An Ode the Stan the Man...
Oh Stanley Uris,
The voice of reason with no one to hear.
A soul crying for truth that simply wasnāt there.
His thoughts so logical yet so unclear.
He longed for order that was thrown in the air.
For bad dreams are for sleep,
Not for real life.
He thought this to be true,
Because in real life
paintings donāt come alive,
Clowns are not killer,
And fears were only irrational.
For his mind saw them as fake and far from the truth.
Yet it was so real and so raw.
Standing in Itās presence.
But You see,
It wasnāt fear that shook Stan to the core.
He could deal with the fear.
For fear was nothing but unreasonable panic.
But it was the assault on his reasoning
and the mess that It made,
That irked Stan in just the right way.
In his eyes,
It was an offense on his thoughts.
So when the call came in 27 years later,
Asking him to come back
And face that psychological assault once more.
He knew what his choices were,
To go back and die dirty
Or to die clean in his home.
As he filled up the tub and folded his clothes,
His fate had been sealed.
For he was no longer twelve
And imagination had run dry.
For there were simply things you could do as a child,
That can never be done again as an adult.
