Stomp, crack, cut the fingers down  

Like a tree timbering loud  

To drown the deafening sound  

Of distorted reasoning.  

The pull-patter of lying  

That battles inside the mind  

Of "you would's" and "you wouldn't's".  

These brash, too-nosy thinkings   

Will cover (with callous cloud) 

Your attractive Sandman dreams.  

They will tuck in a snug clump  

Next to you at sleepy dusk.  

And will murmur horrid words  

About the next-to-you mind  

As you rise from toss/turn night.  

These intramural whispers  

Transform the tidy sincere  

Into a grimy sewer;  

Unkempt and polluted.  

So sweep them in a lock shut,  

Play pretend in your doll house   
   
And adjust their tiny hands  

To fit tight in your full ears.  

At least the intrusive thoughts   

Will be trimmed to soft muffle,  

Only to bother you when  

They rot from condensation  

And nip off when they dry out.