The Last Griffin

I can't remember when I wrote this - way back in college, or shortly thereafter - or whether it was supposed to be a children's poem or some kind of pretentious statement about the world's lack of appreciation for my unrecognized talent.
Surely I meant it as a children's poem ... and while it was the 70s, I didn't drink or do drugs.
Maybe I should have.

The Last Griffin

No one can see the Griffin
They believe it doesn't exist
And just because I've seen him
They think my mind has suffered a twist.
So they pat my head and smile at me,
But each smile says, "conform."
And I tried to, I really tried to -
Till the Griffin brought a Unicorn.

So I shouted to all the people,
"Behold the Griffin, with the lion's mane
And his guest, the magnificent Unicorn!"
But they whispered, "He's going insane."

I ask myself as I sit here,
if I were crazy, would I know?
I began to search inside myself.
(It seems the logical place to go).
But the answer continues to elude me.
How can I deny what my eyes can see?
A Griffin, and a Unicorn
Eating roses, climbing trees.

Then it hits me - I don't belong here!
I'm a stranger among my own kind!
I was born to ride a unicorn -
but it's too late, and I wake to find
The people have finally trapped me
With words of "treatment' and of 'cure.'
They never bothered to ask me
Since they agree and feel secure
That they're only doing what's proper,
They don't care what might be kind.
It doesn't matter to them that I'm happy
Or that the Griffin doesn't seem to mind.

So they leave me on this piece of paper
And somehow, live with their sin
Because they've kept from the world the pleasure
Of sharing the last Griffin