I need to get out of my head

Forever finding turmoil instead

The one at the top bellows below

Look out he’s about to blow

I could find a vice

A place to pause would be nice

They continue to use the spiral downward slide

Trampolines bounding lofting ideas inside

The voices between lobes continue to shout

And I squint wondering what the little ones jabbering about

Wearing a ragged shirt with a few mustard stains, inhibitions, and beliefs

It’s safe to say most of the time the crooked eye sleeps

Those rest of those fuckers could use a few days nap

Down the spinal cord they send a self-sabotaging trap

A little old never forget

Babbling about not being done yet

Or something about a jet

I guess it’s a topic I’m not meant to get

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