'Til its work's met by flesh,
A membrane layered on a blood jet stream,
Packaged in the man, Pietch,
If the world were diff'rent, so'd the readings,
So, too, expectations,
Three hundred years, now, this force has been known,
The heart's not just the source of affections,
The machine stops now, the retreat's slow hiss,
The reading's what it is,
A moment in time, 'mongst infinite more,
Each a correlative,
But, yet, alone,
Is ev'rything function?
What 'bout those ev'nings side-by-side in bed,
When our blood feels like they're beating as one?
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