Mr. Clean and the Brain Parade

Mr. Clean and the Brain Parade

Mr. Clean lives in my skull,
he scrubbed my thoughts and made them dull.
Now everything’s tidy, no surprise–
he even bleached the truth from my lies.

He plays the drums on my frontal lobe,
wears a crown made of bathrobe.
He lined my neurons in neat, straight rows,
and fired the part that says “no one knows.”

March along, don’t misbehave,
you’re part of Mr. Clean’s brain parade.
Sanitized thoughts, guilt-free brain,
welcome to the Whitewashed Train.

He sings hymns in chemical tones,
feeds Prozac to my telephone.
I asked if I could dream again,
he laughed and said, “Let’s rinse your pain.”

And if you hear a hum that bites,
that’s just Mr. Clean with his psychic drum.
He’ll wipe your soul, your grit, your shade,
long live the spotless Brain Parade.