don’t have to be Freud you’re a “product of the times”

Blinded by the light

the hot sauce in your eye

makes you spy the big surprise

twelve chickens in your room

and a handle missing a broom

darkness enshrouds ands

lightness abounds

slip and you fall

trippin out of the mall and into the pall bearing

action of your forefathers

honor the dead as you saunter

on top of the heads of what remains

of your enemies legs

the paper chase a maze

spending days like a rat in a cage

looking for the orange with the holes

wholly invested in the holy quest in which

you have been blessed with

decipher the spazz

freshest thing since jazz

what do you see in the blot of these rhymes

audial Rorschach gives you sight in the mind