Where’s Your Hand?

Sound of the electric woodsaw fills the southern air

as cars, buses and motorbikes rule the street out there.

To rhyme and be poetic – why do I care?

 

Lick your self fabricated spicy desire

and seek a cure for the tongue on fire!

 

God had a fall, her arm dropped down below

Man, being man used it to wipe his rear hole.

 

Now I am transcending, now I am willing

To design a mask to withstand the stink

and a thing to check the pulse of those machines,

I am using this quintessential style of thinking!