this won't be re-written,
though it'll be felt fair enough.

it'll hardly last at all,
with luck, it'll go down rough.

the paint, I'll waste on chippers,
the words, I'll waste on time.
the love, I'll serve with clippers,
my whiskey will serve your wine.

I'll knot my hands with good-ends,

"dream fingers, of skin, and spine"