All idiots start somewhere. Here
it is. We've got one man in
a bind. He's been raving,
mad as a junkyard.
We can't help him, but
we've got to pull the
wool to save ourselves.
Crazy is like the chicken
pox. Once is enough.
Some don't come out
of it. Some wear scars.
Indentations.
If he doesn't stop
shouting soon
he'll conjure something
awful, shrugged maps and
air filled with
flaming rain.
To be lazy
in one's head,
a place
too willing to go.
Now here he is, bitter
and broken
open. Here he is,
splayed like a bag
of globes, spun and
then flung flat
down. Well,
at least if we start
at one end
and follow, we
won't end
up the same
place.
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