This is a record of my thought

It is round, vinyl, black, and scratchy
Who's to say it's not? Are you going to question that
It is round, vinyl, black, scratchy?

It turns, round and round in the air, like a cardboard
UFO, or too much dextromethorphan cough syrup.

In your bed at night, tossing the sheets down, up

Where it is never the right temperature
Where there are squares and fuzzy, puffy lines of
Colored glass stuck in my mind like splinters
I try and shake loose but can't

Even a hot shower is a temporary measure