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.