Feeling the rug mixing with my toes,
Sensing the inhaler clearing my nose,
Scratching the itch in my ass,
Remembering not to pick my nose with that finger,
Until I wash it.
Growing old but not feeling it much,
Still mostly sane, a little out of touch.
My brain makes music all by itself,
Pleasing tunes not found on a shelf,
Things conjured inside of myself,
Music to think by, sleep by, fart by.
Flashes of my own genius fly,
Bounce against the wall,
Return to crash into my eye.
My eye that sees things,
That others rarely ever see,
Things meaningless to everybody,
Except for me.
Is there no end to this?
Little Jack Horner,
Sat in a corner,
Eating a cherry pie,
Stuck in his thumb,
Pulled out a plum,
That ain’t no f***ing cherry!