I don’t think my brain is all connected.
Sensory input is not well directed.
Ice cream on my tongue and I hear punk,
Playing the guitar I feel all drunk.
Feeling the heat of my frying pan,
I saw a vision of my friend Stan.
It got disconnected, at least I think,
When I sat the pile of dishes in the sink.
The china had turned green,
Like a lean mean killing machine.
I stood there and stared at the sight,
I wanted to cook, now I’ll starve all night.