I need to write a poem
about all the things I am passing through,
because only when I'm writing
I can tell if it's true.
Madness is nothing new,
such an old friend, the usual hitchhiker.
But is it a little bit more naked?
Or am I being a hasty striker?
I'm much madder than a hatter,
yeah, I know I shouldn't, no objections.
Now I don't drink tea at 5 a.m.,
I just drive with vague directions.