The cogs beat slow and the chains chime far.
In my mind a violent fairy sings loud from up high.
My words are not one with me, they are never what I spar.
They must be sorted a thousand, and arranged out such as thy.
But there is no upholstery, no index of mischievous men.
The words, they do not follow me. They chuckle like a hen.
I cannot think what I feel, nor squeal when I blink.
They get lost in the magnanimity, of words that will not clink.
I'll try and tell you what I am, but what I am I cannot smell.
There is no nice boy choir sing, to ring the elephant bell.
You must be a father's spell, to thank you frying pan.
I tell you but forever harvester, you tell me that I am.