An old man who spits paint
Is a peculiar timepiece but could work
It depends on the street
Which depends (I suppose) on its nation
He has then painted himself off somehow
His words are animalcules
Clearly, they have escaped his control
While living within him
But we can learn by watching
Shadow stuff these his girders
The independence within him
What his spirit (spit) can master
That is the real tattoo in life
The real joy (sometimes)
It depends on the wings
You surrender to
That it is so simple
Unscientific, divine
Some people find trouble accepting
The tunnel of the way out closed off
Becomes everything to them
Fingers like ghosts encrusted around pens
The lingering types
Is a peculiar timepiece but could work
It depends on the street
Which depends (I suppose) on its nation
He has then painted himself off somehow
His words are animalcules
Clearly, they have escaped his control
While living within him
But we can learn by watching
Shadow stuff these his girders
The independence within him
What his spirit (spit) can master
That is the real tattoo in life
The real joy (sometimes)
It depends on the wings
You surrender to
That it is so simple
Unscientific, divine
Some people find trouble accepting
The tunnel of the way out closed off
Becomes everything to them
Fingers like ghosts encrusted around pens
The lingering types
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