I don’t know that I trust myself
To keep my brains like a raw egg
When the time comes (when I’m supposed to know what to do)
And not to crack my skull,
See my brains drip into the bowl,
Mix them up for a broken yolk,
And then pour them into the pan
So they can scram(ble.)

Sometimes I wonder
If I’ll have to salt them
or add any pepper
or just dig in.

Sometimes I hunger
To know everything
Sometimes I feel so engorged
I’d rather know nothing.

The worst part is not knowing
That the worst part is knowing.

I want to hate my own guts
But that’s--that's utterly nuts,
For it’s never the guts
Should be disdained—
It’s the yolk in my egg, or
The stuff in my brains in my head.