Poems: Ocback to poem listing
Scrubbing my hands, seven times, who knows why?
Seven seems reasonable, should get me by.
Give me a clean towel to dry.
Never clean, always infected, feel all those germs.
Working their way up to moths and big ol' worms.
Oh the scars, oh the burns.
Turn the key, back and forth, four times to work.
Why four? Who knows, it's just a perk
of OC, makes me berserk.
Dry the dishes, had to, I must wipe nine times.
Why again? Once really dries it fine.
It's all part of the crime.
This disease that makes me multiply
the things I do, forces me shy
but it's a part of me, I don't know why. |
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