When I'm all alone
I tell myself my theories
On why the old folk moan
In a crumbling pub called Cleary's,

And why the young folk fight
In the supermarket car park,
Why bite marks on bark might
Be a tree's peculiar birth mark,

Or why dead flies and bees
Seem to end up on the shelf.
I always feel at ease
When I'm talking to myself.

It's like reading from a text
That I've read ten times before.
I know what's coming next.
Dance, robot. Dance.

I spend some time rehearsing
Meeting people that I know,
But when we are conversing
I can't tell where this will go.

They'll talk about their feelings
And their failings and their god,
And things they wrote on ceilings
After smoking something odd.

Some say to God above
They would dearly love to be Spock.
Since I fell in love
My mind has been ha! peacock.

I met her yesterday.
Her presence made me sweat.
I was terrified I'd say
Something I would soon regret,

A line to make her glare.
I was right to feel this dread.
When I said I liked her hair
She said, "No, that's my head."