[I always liked the "Windmills of Your Mind" song from The Thomas Crowne Affair (1968). This is my sloppy mockery of it and its kooky lyrics. The original song was written by Michel Legrand, Alan Bergman, and Marilyn Bergman.]
Like an alabaster hamster snorting a line of moldy bees
Like an esoteric cleric preaching on the chi of knees
Like a sturgeon good at math
Like a German in a bath.
There’s that creep who stands in lines
For the treadmills made of mines.
Like wombats taught to whisper
Or a walrus made to weep.
Oh, look I’ve got a blister.
Have you put the kids to sleep?
Like an anemic brontosaurus
Like a surface that is porous.
Like a fork with just one prong.
Do I look alright in this sarong?
Bears indifferent to plastic
Like a sound that makes you feel
There’s a painting of a lobster
Or a girl stroking an eel.
There’s a sensation that keeps on building
When the circus comes to town.
The Heads try to keep us spinning
But I’m still frightened of the Clown.
There’s a danger of one finding
The lungs of a local mime
Stuffed into a suitcase lining
Before its scented with a lime.
Perchance a purple feather-duster
Or a hasty snark just off the cuff
Will curtail a lion’s luster.
Why aren’t we sleeping in the buff?
Filling red balloons with mustard
Always worked just fine for me.
There’s a startling revelation
That I’ve never had to pee.
Like a wicker orca filled with peanuts riding on antique skis
Like that face you make just before you have to sneeze
Like a leopard who needs a slap
Like a ghost without a map.
A prepubescent hagfish redefines
All the treadmills made of mines.
And the treadmills run on time.