I am a guerilla warfare tactician in a state of fight and flight;
I drop words and phrases like cheap explosives
And I head for the hills when the chickens come home to roost.
99% of all things I have ever said are extinct in my memory,
Having died there almost immediately after their conception.
I am a walking mausoleum of thought, well populated,
And reeking of neglect.
I try to remember, but for the life of me, I can't.
I've forgotten what I meant to say, or if I've said it already.

Just wait, because someday I'll be old and feeble-minded

And as I sit and stare in a hospital chair
Catching the eye of the nurse walking by
I'll wonder, "Do I know her? Is she my daughter?"
And I'll pretend 'til the end I've the answer