My mind works in mysterious ways,
Always driven first by thought,
Then by what it likes not and
In between it inner laughs a lot.
My mind raises mysterious walls
To what it deems it matters not,
Ever embracing what is hot, and
That is the sun ever sought.
My mind contains mysterious vaults
Where we can find what caught
Was by its mentographic shot and
What rots or ripes, yet never god.
My mind respects mysterious cats,
Animals of settled minds for what
They know was not taught, and
The nomad's pet must be a dog.
My mind runs mysterious laps
Around a newly found crop
Of music of quality top and
Of ideas without a firm knot.
My mind allures mysterious lies,
For when it could find a rhyme
It doesn't,
And commences disrespecting
Metre
Meat
Man
And foam
