The Treadmills Made of Mines

[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 LegrandAlan 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.