I seek order from work to channel disorder from free time
I speak eloquently in prose, but my thoughts are in rhyme
I may reason with reason, but leave sanity behind
Now tell me, what do you make of that?
I’ve been called a sort of masochist for enduring pain
I don’t mind mistakes I’ve made again and again
I’m most sensible when doing something inane
So I’m sure you can’t say that I’m sane
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