Oh, the forms a man can take
Inside, without, within
Ah, but the cherry clay we are
Ripe and red as sin.
Then again, not all are clay
As we must have milky worms
To glide among their humble friends
And laugh at each in turn.

Oh, but the faces all around
That consume and kill and see
Or look upon the deformed face
And dream of what could be.
It is hard to say whether man is good
For his faces can be cruel,
His hands black claws killing clouds,
Mother leather serving gruel.

Oh, the ways we can exist
To still insist our kind
Is kind to those close around
Though, in truth, sings crippled lies.