Tonight beneath the waning moon I crouch behind a glass balloon, weighing out my life.
Around the bend, but what comes then?, asks the Devil, bastard, louse. A life to spend, these things we tend, lest not neglect the line.
Just how far has wisdom come, from my father's time? Our dancing keeps us tied in squares, not keeping the march in line.
Nor here, nor there, nor anywhere I've seen has grasped and held the truth. For defenders are rare; belief is an "air", to spread and foster fair.