I have no answers to life's paranormal mysteries,
But if psychics exist, I imagine they're inopportune.
I imagine they always arrive when you're inventorying secrets,
Or, worse, in the midst of momentary obsessions and dark distractions,
Running the same bad line from the same bad song a hundred times
Or contemplating perversions not truly your own,
And as I imagine this, I can't resist remembering
All of the most irredeemable ear-worms
Or committing all of the most gruesome sins in my heinous heart.
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