Beating, a bleeding throughout every vein
Rocking, a swaying like feet on a train
The blood that is moving my body forward
Will pull it right back again, never restored

The aged and the sluggish will peer through the blinds
Thin dusty Venetian cover eyes and minds
Soft layers of fat that froths on the surface
A good soup to drink of old age and disgrace

Curled fingers wrapped around a wooden spoon
Hot steaming splinters touch tree to lips soon
And the brew that flows on without rhyme or meter
Will soon find its end on the tongue of the eater