Grease spilling on the sacral vein,
Clogged, the rule is to fight the night,
Fine filaments are always growing underneath.
Hollow tubes of perfect straightness,
Radiate with light and shapes.
Oh, there is more than it meets the eye,
As all that slickness that drips when it’s hot,
Those little cells that block and grow like mad,
Fry all the universe, fry all the suns,
There is nothing you can do to shut it up.