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.