He gave me back my diploma.

I took a job as a scarecrow in the vegetable patch, But the carrots feared me less than they feared themselves. I said, "Guys, I’m your protector, after all," And they replied, "You’re just a stick in a hat." A separate country lives inside my fridge; Its president is a carton of expired kefir. He issued a decree: "Everyone lie low until March," And now I subsist on nothing but air and dreams. Yesterday, the taxman from my dreams paid a visit, Demanding a declaration of my feelings. I showed them an empty packet that once held tears, And they left, handing me a certificate of merit. Poet-mushrooms grow on my ceiling; They write haikus about my paycheck. I harvest them and boil them into soup, But the soup turns out far too rhymey. My left leg ran off to Dagestan; It writes me letters about the grapes. I reply, "Come back, I miss you," But it says, "It’s nice here—mountains and peace." I set my alarm clock for the afterlife; It rings every morning at seven. I ask it, "Why so early?" And it says, "Get used to it; there’s a schedule there, too." A talking elevator lives in our stairwell; It wishes everyone a happy Bastille Day. The neighbors get annoyed, but I don't mind; I drink tea with it and discuss Nietzsche. I wanted to buy a one-way ticket, But the clerk said, "You already have one." I asked, "Where?" She said, "Right there, in your pocket," And sure enough—there was a ticket and a compost heap. All in all, things are taking their course, Though the course itself has lost its way a bit. I sit here, knitting socks out of silence, Waiting for my train to arrive... through the air.