There's a chill in the air,
The sound of the aich vak is distracting,
There's plastic plants o'er there,
But if I squint my eyes, look at the air,
Ignore my stress-ached back,
Retreat into the darkness of my mind,
I can return to my normal, safe tack,
Which is to sep'rate my self from the world,
A necess'ty since birth,
Born of what? That I was a late surprise,
Spent much lone time on earth?
Who really knows,
What makes you who you are,
E'en thinking back's done by your present self,
Only the future's subject to repair.
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