There isn’t much to do
Not much that catches your
Imagination, anyway
Birds fly past, flees stick mast
Not only in and on your bed
But on your naked skin within
And you scratch, you let it itch
You ask of yourself this
One favour to silence you
Whereas many more tongues
Would gladly and relentless
Answer your call madly
But this one doesn’t, well yes
It doesn’t obey and it keeps
It keeps scratching at your nerves
And you hide away in
one well-shaped corner
of God’s new scheme
If you don’t come out within
three seconds - one sin - he will
smite thee, yes, he will
And then we’ll see what
The scratching actually brings
At night, listening to the rain outside drowning all your hopes
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