Without time tossing, turning, trailing work into pure sleep
Our meager eyes behold us to a lonely concrete keep
When constant trials bring us into forlorn rocky roads
We sometimes get the break we need to learn our conscious folds.

We strip away at wires and the scabbards at our backs
With thunderous applause and happy jackals turning black
A moment without iron surely wouldn’t be too much
Yet one small step for man, you’ll say, is never quite enough.

When wringing out a stream of plight as dense as rotten scales,
A satin cloth drifts down upon the sickened tall boy’s tales.
Let shrieks (let tonic!) sip you from the worker’s ghostly glow,
With star-born eyes ahead of lust – that Jesus, he should know!