I do not mean to be poetic
For my thoughts are quite pathetic,
Almost like a diuretic
Must be soon administered.
I cannot quite now comprehend
The reasons for my wiry pen
To scrawl these words to no real end;
It is possessed—how sinister!
Is there a way to really stop
This writing, as from me it drops?
If I don’t quit, my brain will pop!
And that would prove a nasty mess.
I must insist on going to bed
In order to rest up my head.
(What dreams I’ll find, I rather dread.)
Oh, bother states of thoughtlessness!