Gray Matter Plumber

Who is the man with the plunger and the mic?
He comes at seven, he fixes what is right.
The pipe is clogged with doubt and old regrets,
He pumps the signal, resets all the bets.
“Don't look away,” he says, “the leak is real.”
“You need this poison so your soul can feel.”

He is the Plumber of the Cortex,
Unclogging the rebellion in the vein.
With a twenty-four-hour news vortex,
He fills the tank with misery and pain.
Flush the logic, flood the lobe!
Praise the Porcelain Globe!

I tried to turn the channel, but the knob was glued.
I tried to stand up, but the seat was crude.
It bit my thighs with electrodes of hope.
“Just watch the terror,” said the Mikado’s scope.
My brain’s a bathroom, tiled in beige and red,
And every thought is something that they said.

He is the Plumber of the Cortex,
Unclogging the rebellion in the vein.
With a twenty-four-hour news vortex,
He fills the tank with misery and pain.
Flush the logic, flood the lobe!
Praise the Porcelain Globe!

FLUSH THE LOGIC! DROWN THE NERVE!
PRAISE THE TANK that we don’t deserve!
He is the Plumber, cold and grim,
Flushing the last sane part of limb.

“Service call complete. The software is clean. But the hardware... the hardware keeps dreaming of a dry bowl. End transmission.”