MONKEY

The Monkey sat on a pile of stones
And stared at the broken bone in his hand
And the strains of a Viennese quartet
Rang out across the land.

The Monkey looked up at the stars
And he thought to himself,
Memory is a stranger;
History is for fools.

And he cleaned his hands
In a pool of holy writing
Turned his back on the Garden
And set out for the nearest town...

- Roger Waters, Amused to Death