My head is full.

Full of brain soup,

And the brain is nearly ripe,

Nearly wrinkled just enough.

Inside each crevice seeps in the broth

And when i twirl my spoon

My mouth begins to water–

Then my arms don’t work…

Huh– I guess I’ll lift the spoon from my skull

And ignore the side which now droops.

But still I cannot wait another night

To see a brain that’s wrinkled just enough.