I forgot the words, I forgot the words
Why is my memory so full of holes
If only I could sing just like the birds
I wouldn't miss all those destroyed brain cells
An autocue would suit me very well
Maybe it would help me come up with lines
Not only when performing but to tell
Me what to say to you on the next time
I can ad lib a bit, it should be fine
Mixing what's thought before with what's occurred
Just now, so well-woven that you can't tell
Which bits I made up and which I spent time
Rehearsing. When your synapses get furred
When words get blurred, when time has finally told
Mon 25 April
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