Jim

Day 9

When leaving the house, I do so twice,

First, fifty feet (though cubits are nice),

And then I must return to be,

A fleeting prison detainee.

What do you suppose I do it for?

To check the gas, warrant the door?

To rattle a switch back and forth?

(Precisely twenty times, of course).

You'd surely not be too far wrong,

To think these habits all belong,

For when I once again emerge,

My head bent so against the dirge,

I'm mad! A whirling dervish, see!

My legs a wild cacophony!

I'm right on time to not be late,

By virtue of my livid gait.

To toil, ironically assigned,

The greatest works of fertile minds,

A wealth of feeling all to hand,

To know but never understand,

For when obliged to share a dream,

It falls out hot and full of steam,

I must enquire as to the why,

My colleagues all avoid my eye.

No matter, that's not why I'm here,

Not to gossip or endear,

For when midday is mine to keep,

The toilet cubicle I creep.

And there, I gorge indulgently,

Upon my darkest fantasy,

My damnedest mother there, and me,

To murder her most violently.