A mind that's garlanded with strange attire
Like all the verbs that crowd around in mine
Is quite confusing. More when it's on fire
Which rather tends to ruin what was fine
In all that garlanding. It's rather strange
To coop up with such oddities and burn.
Of course, that's not to say I'd like to change,
But rather that I, like a butter churn,
Go endlessly around inside myself,
And alter what's inside. Being so turned,
I wonder how each world stays by itself
And doesn't jumble others; but I learned
Eventually they separate again;
But I'll be plenty buttery by then.
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