I went out of my mind and then came to my senses

By meeting a magpie who mixed up his tenses,

Who muddled distictions of nouns and of verbs,
And insisted that logic is bad for the birds.
With a poo-wee cluck and a chit, chit-chit;
The grammar and meaning don't matter a bit.
The stars in their courses have no destination;
The train of events will arive at no station
The inmost and ultiment Self of us all
Is dancing on nothing and having a ball.
So with chat for chit, and with tat for tit,
This will be that, and that will be it!