Look here, Doctor, there's nothing amiss in the snakepit
Of my mind.
I bray, I stand, I sit, I pick my nose and teeth
And behind.
Anything in the kit to calm my nerves, a cayenne shake
In some cream?
I weary of the infiltrated mug of Oral Roberts
In my wet dreams.
My verses may be as flat as Neil Young hitting a high note,
Dressed in teal.
Trouble is, I write the same thing: a needle stuck in a groove,
And quite unreal.
Can I get a private nurse in room number five-nine-six-three,
Or a coop?
Lessons? Lesions? It must needs behoove me, in solitary,
To recoup.
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