Plick plack, plick plack. 
The ducklings in my head peck the pebbles of the previously feared agony.
The angles in my cerebellum clasp like the thoughts of shareholders when stocks stop to sell on the floors of the market.
A chair is not a platform to sit, but an avenue not to give standing excuses on foggy things.
Blades of credit clench to the deceitful margins of my principles.
I am not tired of sitting on the fence, I am only scared of landing on the worthless side.
Strands of glory escort the yellow dreary rains.
Bands of lonely stems cut the bellows Jet retains.
If only I could unzip the wrong sides of truth, I would seriously drown the ceremony of innocence.
My soul leaps and trips on the bench of classic classes like a tamed wolf pledging allegiance to its new foolish master. 
The king would not live forever.
The chiefs out of latent fears would not leave him to fever.
I salute the Old man and I salute the medal.
I as well salute the Pope and the crew in Jeddah.
A minted shilling is exchanged for a downgraded group of mines.
I yell at the crowd composed of greedy merchants of doom. Messengers of blasphemy.
Have we or have we not?
I appeal to humanity for the future unravelling cracks that I tend to cause.
Let the bridges of liquor and the culverts of barley connive to rust my mindful steel.
This is the time I never go to sleep.
