If today hadn't cooked the brain,
He'd risen like neurones,
In the way they do.
He'd awakened, jarring the door
So that nobody could enter
And stampede the nodes inside.
Spiders would squirm in beneath
The bedroom door, they explained
To the gentleman always with grey
That certainty of brain dementia
Was valid as the hair on the chest.
White coats entered to chant a message.
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