How the yarn of the brain weaves its webs
To make conversations ... connected.
Only the misheard is ever remembered:
The jejune school of haiku, the hair of the doge star,
The recovery lawyers and their exploding on moguls cigars.
The self-logical journey will stub its toe at some point,
The clouds will drop so close
Flat earth is no longer a theory,
And there will be nothing to say
As the river is pinked by chemicals
But "give me my cross or give me death."
