The air flows by like honey,
Sweet and dense and cold,
And there's no sense touching anything
In this cling-film covered world.
It's thirty, forty, fifty hours,
And sleep is but a dream,
And the final sense capitulates;
The cotton tongue hallucinates,
And breath tastes old and sour.

The spirit whispers somewhere near
“You've miracles to do”,
But Jesus waves mankind away,
And returns unto the hay,
And lies back in the stable,
And hopes he never wakes.


by Matt