Much praise goes to motherhood,
Stars and stripes and apple pie,
Picket fences, well-mowed lawns
And steeples white and high.
More praise should go to antic folk,
With their wry, ironic ways,
Who find a source of laughter
In what other people praise.
Show what's praised by average folk
To anyone endowed with wit
And see how quickly they can find
A way to make a joke of it.
Seeing just how funny
Things that we hold dear can be
Should remind us that we may be fools
To take them all so seriously.