How many licks does it take to get the center of your universe? And when
the hell are you going to vacate my brain? I invited myself over for
dinner. I didn't invite you to take up residence in my psyche and stay a
while. Maybe you've been sleeping on the couch in there since we were
thirteen and I just started being alerted of your presence again. You're
raiding the fridge and shit.
I'm just saying, I'm not supposed to be thinking this much about nothing.
How many ticks does it take to get to the center of your time bomb?
Or am I imagining that blinking monitor on your chest?
I imagine a lot of things these days, boy.
You had better fucking set me straight before you get evicted.
*alternate title: Mr. Owl, How Many Licks Does It Take to Get to the Center of Mr. Jones?
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