CrazyTown

I've been to a little place
called CrazyTown
where the air is so thin
I can hardly breathe.

A neurotic,
psychotic place
is CrazyTown
and its inhabitant
(population: 1)
is crazed.

There’s an alarm that goes off
at 4:00 every morning
or thereabouts
I’m the only one
who can hear this
alarm.
Is that so strange?

Sometimes I run
and run and run
to leave this
CrazyTown.
I’m on the noon train
getting the heck out of Dodge
but still that damn train
crosses the CrazyTown Bridge
and leads me back
to thin air,
alarms only I can hear,
and crazy thoughts.

What is it about
this crazy town--
this madness.
this craving,
that calls me back
again and again?

You think you’ll only visit
CrazyTown--
but a few hours stay
turns into a fortnight
(that’s Britspeak for two weeks)
and a fortnight becomes a habit.
And the habit of CrazyTown
is too consuming
too addictive
too much a waste
of precious living.

So, I’m leaving
for good this time.
I don’t want
to even stand on that damn border again.
This chick’s got new places to go, to see,
and they don’t include even driving by
CrazyTown.