Somewhere someone in  some back-room
Of a pipe smoked sofa driveled club
Said Appearances are all we’ll ever see;
Appearances are all we’ll ever groom

Nibbling French bread and sipping warm tea
Licking tobacco marinated lips
Doesn’t surprise the children one bit
Grown accustomed to such philosophy

Knowledge is a slippery, layered thing
Not found in some finger-printed book
On an oily shelf in a well-observed room;
It is an acquired taste, a third look

At letters, sweat and bloody rules;
Penetrated through calloused, hardened skin
Sometimes learned in pedagogical schools
Sometimes found in accidental discipline

Appearances are all, she said; they’re all
We’ll ever know; all we’ll ever see;
I asked in a most understated tone,
Whatever could a prime number be?