Now I don't mean you're delusional
It's that you're diluvial
In a manner quite effluvial of
Certain schizoid type
For your French exchange
When young, hung
Like a ripe
Plum around the gum
Of the girl on
The bike
Who you saw but did not like
Only the smell and the hum
Of Paris or a bum
Or a scent of the drum
When the sun beat its thumb
On the edge of your skull
In the bus where the droll
Hypocrites type
Their soul out
And write
I think you're delusional
