Cuckoo Nutso
(Tom Entrican 8/2021)
Cramped up real tight in my soft little room
A place that’s so small, just like mothers womb
Not one thing to do but listen to songs
Written by men who are now long gone
My only one visitor, a bald man with pen
Who writes what I say again and again
He seeks much knowledge of my youth “was I wild”
Or “was I often dropped on my head as a child”
If he probes too deep I just give him a scowl
Or perhaps a hand gesture that he thinks is foul
Sometimes I won’t answer which just makes him yell
Then I top it all off by creating a smell
He says I can’t leave here ‘til he figures out
What’s broke in my head as if something fell out
I’ll just bide my time in my funny white clothes
With my arms tied in back, I just can’t pick my nose