I've got an ice pick
to remove the frosty caverns of my heart.
On my journey, I scavenged two twigs from a dying tree.
My deft fingers at the ready.
I knew they'd come in handy.
Once the cold has flown, heat would undoubtedly be needed
in its place.
So with these sticks I'll start a fire,
Right in the center,
So when it catches on,
It blubbers and gasps for more,
until its red greedy mouth
has emblazoned the whole ***** and things change.
And I'm not as I once was.