One day I noticed
you were not looking well.
I was up in heaven,
you, somewhere like hell.
Let’s call you Mister Mistman,
you’ll be famous all around.
A mental wreck declining,
lost, never to be found.

Are you still alive?
They say you’re dead.
You’re unreal, Mister Mistman,
an illusion in my mind.
You float through the air,
you drift all around.
Someday you’ll settle
on cold, sterile ground.

Can you see, Mister Mistman?
Feel, smell or hear?
Can you talk, Mister Mistman?
Your body is wasting,
slowly rotting away.
Think, think, think,
and your mind will rot away.

Drawing circles in your mind,
plotting, scheming, lie after lie.
Imitation? Imagination?
It’s not real,
confusion – that’s your mind.
One day, soon to come,
you will die like everyone.
Fall apart, rot away,
day by day. Day by day.

Your time has come,
you sink to the ground.
Your’re dying, Mister Mistman,
disappear, you’ll never be found.
Bad things surround you.
You don’t understand.
Can’t you see, Mister Mistman?
You’ve lost your mind.

1970, June


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