God, I itch.
When they say it’s all in your head,
Forsooth, this time they are right.
The tympanic membranes
vibrate at a galling frequency
perhaps meant for Fido to hear.
But I cannot scratch
this bitch of an itch.
Scalp over scabbed skull I scratch,
helping along that balding patch.
(at least, that’s my belief)
But the stuff inside my meathead brain
it won’t be calm, and won’t refrain.
Miles and miles of duodenum.
Fold upon fold, in dreams I’ve seen ’em.
Oh, let me lift my lid now, just this once,
a give a good scratch, stir the stew.
Like that wretched Dr. Finklestein
from The Nightmare before Christmas.