Tape, Mind, Smell, Scrambled &
Of dances, and towers, and time on tape
Of catchy little numbers, so tiny you can’t see
Of insidious little creatures screaming inside of your mind.
But this is no video
This.
Your catchy jazz numbers.
Your sweet luscious sweat smell.
Why the romance of these little people
Of which it’s so scrambled.
At least there is something
I HEAR THEM MUMBLE
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