Your back curves like a creeping vine, With the answers in the fluid in the stem of the spine, In the black-coffee bowl of your eye, Why do you overestimate the size of the lie? I've seen The dangers of your rising sign, But I swear I'd like to drink the fuel straight from your lighter It's all inside the wrist, It's all inside the way you time it I resent the way you make me like myself My nerves jump like a boiling pan, Like a skillet full of oil spits rattling on the burner, When I stumble onto the thought of the match you lit and dropped and set the dial to slow yearn Can I spell it out? Should I spell it out?