Warm hands and a fried eye
There is no getting around,
The fact that we’re disposed to
Clunking up and then down.
Warm hands and a fried eye
Follow this, follow that.
The instincts of the drowned world
Is to do and say something else.
Fried hands and a warm eye,
Looking through the glass .
Make mine a cuboid libre,
The ice fits better that way.
Fried heart and a slow eye.
Look at this, look at that.
The pattern is finally forming;
So bring your compass and your maps.
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