You can't assume it means a thing
To hear me whistle happy tunes.
"Someone's happy" says a man who hears me cross the room.
But sometimes when an earworm hides
Between my ears behind my eyes
It's name must be sung out for it to have any egress.
It writhes around inside my brain
It hates it when there's quiet
It sings and sings its heart out as a way to breach the peace
And when the worm has sung enough
Cacophony will fill the skull
The pressure starts to build, but still the little worm sings on
So whistling a happy tune
Is sometimes just a way to make
a spout, through which the pressure of the music can escape.
So don't assume my mood is high
If music flows forth from my lips,
I'm cleaning out the earworm's tank,
By making it a wormhole
out of notes that sound like joy
