I think of you, but not you of me,
For I am shackled, and you are free.
Now the words are clear, but I’ll never tell
For I am pigeon-livered and lack gall.
The recursive words stay in my head–
They leave me not and make me mad–
I am now the jester in time’s flow,
Put on a show so you won’t know
How the words are free,
And good to go,
Yet woe is me,
My mind’s not free.