A Thought Process

I had a thought process once.
Its name was Burbank.
It had a crank case for a heart.
It picked me apart
until there wasn’t anything left to pick.
It had a few tricks up its sleeve.
It was studded with diamonds
and it was also a stud.
It was a dud at budding.
It was suds in a bucket.
When confronted
with unmitigated failure,
it simply said “Fuck it,”
and thrust its hands in its mouth.
It traveled south every winter.
It took shavings for splinters.
It was an unremarkable lay,
but sure played a mean mandolin.
It thought it was a duck.
Or possibly a stuck pig.
I had a thought process once,
but I can’t really be sure.

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