She went in his experiment,
she let him pick her brain.
She asked him what he found there
and he said, “Let me explain:
Best kept open while in use,
your mind is an umbrella;
the motor skills to hold it up
are largely cerebellar.
In one eye and out the other,
through a lobe that’s occipital,
see me as more than a bloke
who works inside a hospital.
Your prefrontal cortex offers
you higher cognitive function;
Part of your parietal lobe,
might favour our conjunction.
In short your neural circuitry
suggests that there’s a chance
you’re up for having lunch with me.”

He threw a sidelong glance
at her variegated mental scan;
he had her brain displayed:
glorious technicolour blobs
predict the choice she’d made.

She said she felt absurdly flattered
and admired his central nerve,
and was not at all offended,
didn’t think he was a perv,
said her man would not be pleased
if she left him cuckolded
for one brighter, more connections,
turn in his grave if he were dead.

You really ought to wear a ring
accepting his mistake he said,
bestowed a T-shirt, much too big
which she would only wear in bed,
slogan hidden from the world:
I’ve had my brain scanned, have you?
Are you of sound mind?
Call 0800 triple 42.