Gary Jones

My mind, my mind, my mind.
Who knows what they’ll find in my mind.
Maybe they’ll find a mouse, a louse, a house, a house that is a home.
A home with a gnome, a dome, some foam.
Some fizzy foam, some dizzy foam, some izzy wizzy lets get busy foam.
But who will make it? Who will take it, bake it, wake it?
Wake up, don’t sleep or dream.
The dream of cream in a stream with bream.
Bream, a fish, a British fish in a dish.
The dish of life, with a wife, strife, a knife.
A sharp knife to cut, a rut through a gut, in a hut.
A hut on a beach, with sand, band, a man who’s tanned.
Tanned by the sun, fun, a loaded gun.
A gun, take aim, fire, acquire respire, no wait, he’s a liar.
It’s a blank, the bank, hit by a tank. A TANK!
The big green mean machine.
Drives down the road, it’s load, with a code, that’s jumbled, mumbled, a humbled child,
Who’s wild, mild, filed away in a drawer, a store, a law about a door.
A door to the world, that curled around a sound, bound, mound, what have I found?
An answer I yearn, learn, burn, turn in my grave, cave, wave must behave,
For I have sinned, binned, tinned, walked in the wind.
Wind or wind, help I’m blind, kind, must find my mind.

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