Pillage in the Village, the sign read, which led me to ask
Is that a poem? I addressed the person in the Nixon mask

I received no reply
from that girl or guy
Is that really you?
Or am I just high?

It seemed fruitless to stand and pursue what seemed to be a monologue
So I considered my options, I wondered where I’d left my dog
Dizzy, I felt as though my mind was in a fog
And it came to me that I had never had a dog

There was a bench close by, a bench on which I sat
To figure out who I was and other things like that

I could think in words, so my memory was not entirely gone
And I thought that I remembered that my name was Sean
But that might not be true, that might just be because it rhymed with gone
Suppose that I was an unwitting victim of some word devil, just a pawn

The area surrounding the park seemed familiar, yet not quite
Like perhaps I’d once been hungry and stopped to get a bite
One night

There was something strange, I knew, inside my brain
The slight dizziness was gone and I felt no pain
But I was disoriented, didn’t really know who or where I was or am 
Still there was no sense of panic; it seemed I really didn’t give a damn

A kind of lethargy, a sense of what might be called ennui
Where did I get that fancy word, a simple man like me?
I’d better figure out just who myself might be
In other words, try to track down my identity

I must have dozed off for quite some time  
The trip this time was different in some ways
Every other sentence ended in a rhyme
This persisted for several days

Was that really you?
Or was I just real high?