Clean and clean and wash and wash and
you’ve got more than your head
buried in the sand
Surely you must recognize
this thing is a disorder
the same old tangled circular thoughts
ragged at the border
form the picking and the prodding
hoping for some new wrinkle
all the crazy learned behaviors
repeat till the groove’s instinctual
the disorder whispers that insanity
is daring to change
And I’d listen but I know I’m
in the spooks’ wireless range
and my tinfoil sombrero
is full of holes
where I tried to pick off
all the bugs and burning coals
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