They say–in fact, believe.
But when friends visit, and I'm there,
I see that they're ashamed of me.
My way of seeing isn't shared.
It's insight–and insanity,
Inspiration extraordinaire;
Authorities want ordinary.
To be normal, average, fair?
For that they say I ought to dream.
They don't even have to cut your hair
To perform lobotomies.
Of what you're wishing, best beware.
In this ironic world, it seems
That the very stuff of nightmares
Is oft the rotten fruit of dreams.
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