this is what shrooms make you write

Walking about in this dirtied hall
I notice the green and dying.
Pestering ivy covered wall
obscuring my view of the dead.
Browning grass and tumbleweed fall
infinitely from the ceiling.
Reversing position it calls,
"It's totally unfeasible"
It tells me in a Southern drawl,
"Aye, fallin' grass 'n tumbleweed,
jus' fixed wit' dis wood'n dowel."
Walking backwards I stumble fast
out of this heinous world I crawl.