Yogurt Enemas Through Fourteen-Foot Tubes (John Harvey Kellogg)

Lyrics

[Verse 1]
Your flaked grain spinning through the kiln—
that phantom moment when you saw
the whole cortex rewire itself.
Synaptic plasticity blooming:
hard wheat softening to phantom gold.
You pressed it flat, let theta waves
of steam dissolve the gluten chains,
and every neuron in your fingertips
predicted what came next—
the crunch, the synesthetic joy.
Long-term potentiation firing
through the taste buds of the world.
Your hands knew the hippocampal map
before your mind caught up:
breakfast could be reformation.

[Chorus]
You turned the ordinary into light,
flaked it golden, made it right—
every bowl a mirror neuron's dance,
showing us a second chance.
Your vision spread like myelination,
wrapping every nation's morning bright.
You turned the ordinary into light.

[Verse 2]
The phantom touch of corn and steel,
your proprioception reading
every temperature shift, every crush—
the axonal branching of your thought
reached into kitchens you'd never seen.
Interoception: you *felt* the hunger
of millions before they knew themselves,
coded it into golden flakes,
into crisp geometry.
Predictive coding perfect—
you knew what bodies craved
before the world had language for it.
Cortical remapping: your invention
rewired breakfast into medicine,
into morning ritual, into joy.

[Chorus]
You turned the ordinary into light,
flaked it golden, made it right—
every bowl a mirror neuron's dance,
showing us a second chance.
Your vision spread like myelination,
wrapping every nation's morning bright.
You turned the ordinary into light.

[Bridge]
The synapses still firing,
still reaching, still connecting—
your phantom touch on every table,
neurogenesis of the daily miracle.

[Chorus]
You turned the ordinary into light,
flaked it golden, made it right—
every bowl a mirror neuron's dance,
showing us a second chance.
Your vision spread like myelination,
wrapping every nation's morning bright.
You turned the ordinary into light.

[Outro]
Your kiln still hums with possibility,
each flake a small reformation,
and we're still crunching through your dream—
still tasting the phantom warmth
of your hands pressing grain into grace.

**Word count: 318**