Let me get around, let me fill my quota, know
Some sound, some round, some filler some quotidien, know
How hell-bent on the angle at the corner, know
So well, so sleepy, so distraught in the middle of it, know
Metering lights, shit-digging, often sparks and lice-lights, know
How hoppy and distrustful, full of woe, no mother, know
Well we kept up and the restful stayed behind, so no race, know
No contest, no beginning, just the twine intercalating in my knit, know
