Is it normal that snl ruined my poetic prose?

I had this piece of writing that I found very lovely and poetic. Ever since the Lonely Island guys from Saturday Night Live and Justin Timberlake sang Dick in a Box, I was never able to appreciate it the same anymore.

I have a clock in a box. It's beautiful. I never use it, see it or think of it. Except for at the exact moment when I go to sleep. I turn everything off and hear the dripping sink first. Then the buzzing sound of too much noise during the day. The moment I let my head sink in the pillows... close my eyes and relax the first muscles, I hear it. My beautiful clock ticking in its box. And it's the most pleasant sound I can hear... For the beauty of the wood and the flowers and yellowish paper on the background accompany it alongside the fact that if I hang it on the wall it stops. At whatever time I hung it. So I just leave it there... In its safe box. And it doesn't exist until I close my eyes at night... On my couch. As if I slept here every night-night just to hear the warm familiar ticking lullaby. As I write I can no longer hear it. It pains me to have left my moment of comfort, pleasure, joy to register it... But I'm certain the time and ticks I missed will have given me the sweetest memory of the most beautiful unseen clock in a box. 

Thanks, Lorne Michaels, for ruining my poetic prose! Thanks. Now I wish I had a fucking flowery dick in that box instead of a stupid broken clock.  

is it normal I feel this way? Or can I be tranquil for the writing sucked dick anyway?