And count myself a king. But I was wrong;
A nut in theory is a notebound song
That needs the touch of instruments to tell
What is in key, and what is tuned unwell.
The worries I have hoarded all along
Return when I'm alone in horrid throng
And make my home a self-sustaining hell.
To rule here, as in hell, is mockery:
I cannot step a foot beyond myself
And every thought repeats what I have thought.
For mere sensation I destroy the crockery
And push my tumblers off of every shelf
Until I drink from mugs my uncle bought.
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