This is Mr. Head:
He thinks he’s my boss And lives in a jar.
A duty of his Is to keep me safe,
Keeping a lookout… For Bogeymen! Together we reason:
If x equals z Then therefore thus
C must be half Of one twenty-three,
And nothing bad will Ever, ever
Happen to me. What he does best
Is to manage the ship. He spies on the boys
To make very sure that they’re Not slacking off. But something goes wrong.
“NO, NO! THAT WON’T DO!
The lungs’ve sunk down By thirty percent!
It’s time now for your Performance review.
Till that’s been done, I’ll be the one
Who’s breathing for you!” In-sucking air
Mechanical bellows: Tight, sharp, and dry.
The airway’s alarm Rings loud and shrill
Till the so-called Master, Old Mr. Head, can sort
Everything out. “Look at that mug!
He ain’t got a clue. We’ve been breathing
At thirty percent ‘Coz ‘e told us to!” But Head never listens
To lackeys like these. He’s the Big Cheese
(So he likes to think) And he’s the one to call
All the shots. No matter what
The body knows The body knows itself:
Each breath breathed In and out
Birth till death Birth till death.