The Death of Reason

I don't get it. I just don't get it.

Why does life keep repeating itself?

I've got a gig, yeah, but it is not the most stable thing, says the man.

The car's being driven by madness on stilts, yeah.

Here I am with a pot belly, a whole lot of things-doing and the death of clues and rhyming time.

Here's some chicken on a plate.

Hate.

So much hate.

Embraced.

What's a man to do but become unhinged?

And wonder.

Why wait?