Absolutely

When I wake up from the dream in which I've fileted myself,  
And somehow got or found myself conveyed by a conveyor belt,  
And saw myself cellophane wrapped, priced to sell on a grocery shelf,  
My best before is my date of birth, and  
My name misspelt,  
And I'm sweating and grasping and trembling frightened that my face will melt...  
   
Should I call and make an appointment?  
Absolutely.  
   
When my blinds are closed and my eyes peak out,  
And my softest breath an exposing shout,
but I laugh out loud and feel awfully proud,
of my imaginary friend at my hip with me now,  
A pair a noids at the blinds well worth your talking about,    
   
Should I ring and make an appointment?  
Absolutely.  
   
When I speak a streak in symbolic imagery,  
And mold holocausts from any day's everyday vagaries,  
Muddling the words of my self-grounding  Jesus geas,  
 So suddenly it summons forth a demonic breeze,    
   
Should I pencil in an appointment?    
Absolutely.    
   
Before that baleful breeze sends me to your stoop and your bell,    
Before my lungs get filled and brim with  lamentations of hell,    
Before I ring three times and scream aloud "Anabelle!"  
Before you tell the police "He is really not doing that well"    
   
Should I show up promptly for my appointment?    
Absolutely.