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.