Silver-tongued silverback acrobat,
Sliver among passive track, those little tacks
Swing up high, sweep on by
The air is your medium, your cartilage courage
I thought I was something highly, flying freely, sighing too.

Cotton grass on trickling, bubbling, thinking brook
Garfish thought twice and took to my hook
Devour me I spoke to the placid sky
Leave me here, in Schrödingers hour,
If I reel in thine I may find the acrobat or an empty line.