Cold storage. 

I’d rather be on the wax floor looking up 

Illuminated stars than trying to find a key hole 

surgeon having meet the trapanner on my shoulders 

lost somewhere between the warmth 

of cold storage and needs for Sporrans 

as the rats lead the way to the things 

you’d wish to say but labels meant you refrain as 

You now read it back and apportion blame 

to a mirroring system with the let’s go dutch acclaim.

West of here a right turn redial nine 

telephone east ten acclimatise Siskin.