Madness to the Method

Call me Mr. Sensible. Call me Mr. Reason. You can always count on me, regardless of the season. Consistently, I have a plan, built on a firm foundation. I take care to work things out, based on sound information. But as I get older, something might be happening to my brain. Madness wants to disrupt my methods, rational and sane. With this crazy freedom seeking impulse, I'm not sure whether (or how much longer) I can keep my head together. What's that you say, you addle-brained, speckled neon freak? Yes, it's freedom from your logical tyranny that I seek. Backwards, upside down, I don't care which way you like, I'll ride my silver unicycled, one-wheeled velvet bike. I'll scatter raindrops on the tattered pages of your dumb books, I'll let them fry or drip them dry, hanging upside down from hooks. I'm Mr. Hyde. I will not bide. It's time to take my daylight midnight ride. I'll go from your left ear to the right and come out the other side. My head is flying sideways, across a popcorn universe, I see myself in a suit and tie, lying in a coffin in a hearse, and hear words fly from my mouth, telling me (though I'm dead), my method's been redecorated by a madness in my head.