Twisted Minds

This man is missing his little brown hat.

There goes the man,

He’s stirring the pot.

With a big wooden spoon,

He’s moving the ooze,

In a clockwise direction.

The man,

He’s wearing a little brown hat,

And some boots.

Stirring the ooze,

That is my brain.

Churning away;

Every hour or so.

Mixing the chemistry,

Stepping up the flow,

Of what lies behind thy eyes,

And beneath thy skin,

Paving the way

For a brighter day.