My skull's a can I've once too often opened,
My brain, its squirming contents;
I've fingered through its crumpled folds
So raptly that it sighed in resignation,
Farted, spread its squashy lobes, and died.
I have lost the chance to make it yield
A petri dish of psych-illogical molds!
What loamy thoughts did thrive in slimy darkness,
Once exposed to daylight, shriveled up and
Perished in my periscope. There is no hope,
No hope for me, the o'er-examined life is
Not worth living;
here I sit, self-aware,
Nightmare of self-scrutiny;
Nibbling at a steaming platter
Of my own, deceased gray matter.