The skin I crawl through when I hear that sound--
that simple sound of voice that hits the string I hold.
Skinny little inch that skims the top of my face;
who's watching you?
Who's watching you now?
Do what your skin permits.
Do what your sin accepts.
I do what I accept.
The cover that lifts off at a deadly speed, how tender you think you may become--
how subtle do you think a needle would be?
Not so, skinny inch.
Skinny skin in a satin cover, with metal spikes--
how do you react?
How strange a sound, how strange a thought, how strange a mind may permit!
How mischievous and rampant and deserving such a wound would be.
So exist before us and be visible to the language we speak.
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