We’ve taken the string between our hands,
Drawn it tight, hoping it would sing,
Instead it snapped, with a ringing scream,
Maybe we shouldn’t have twisted it up,
Each little knot scarring it,
We cried, “Complexity,”
Before it was so straight and narrow,
How boring the little string was,
It wasn’t even dyed,
It was pure natural cotton,
We cried, “Colour,”
But we covered it with our soot,
Our greasy hands defiled it,
Poor little string,
We never said we’re sorry,
After all, it was entirely your fault.