I asked him, "What was the meaning of life?"
"Yes," he replied, "that's it. The meaning of life."
"I walked five miles to ask you a question.
You are a philosopher. Philosophers know
About life. I am asking you. Don't I deserve an answer?"

Diogenes was feeling melancholic. After the gift of a drachma
He had asked for a whore but she never came.
Since desire was annoying, he had pleased himself
And got rid of the problem.

"Of course you do. And the answer's the same. Yes."
"But it could just as well be No," I cried.
"No will do just as well for the meaning of life,
Slightly better in fact."
Diogenes secretly wished the whore had hurried.

"I cannot pay you for this," I told him.
"Cannot or will not," came the reply.
"I wanted clarity not obfuscation."
"Yes and No are merely signposts.
Language is a trick of the mind
A way toward explaining the impossible.
It's an enigma, a conundrum, a riddle.
Accept life and live it in all its fullness
Then you will have its meaning."

"Ok," I said, "I think I get that."
"Consult an oracle, or a God.
Most of them have answers of some sort
And you can travel and see the sights."

"I didn't need you to tell me that."
"You didn't pay me anything,
So the advice is free. Nothing is more difficult
Than not deceiving yourself,
So live happily with what you know."

"That makes sense," I said.
"Think of life as a series of jokes. The more seriously you take it
The funnier it is."

"You are a poet and madman," I told him, tossing him a coin.
"Thank you," he replied.