I see
                           the letters in the book
But there is
                                 something
In
My brain
It blocks                   the view
Where now                                             He gallantly grips the stringed ladle
I can barely see       the picture       of      Death
The WORD.                                            That is the Fender       Stratocaster.
                                   Now                    There is a spell put on me
Hear it                                                    Coming from a painted lady
                            the noise                    That kisses
In                                                          The sky...that runs with raindrops.
Misery
It blocks                 the voice
That should be
Iterating the equations and         the numbers
Not PURPLE HAZE.