Slaves of steel, Babies of bread, Homes of hair and wood Housing new drool and ugly questions For the children of books, blood dust, Old songs for the myth of dreams By tired days smiling fixed teeth but With a prepared known dreamt Who smells bone But the worm, the roast, the biologist, The needle talks, The bullet walks, but Some dance through their wax And sing of shit The labyrinth of life and house of corn, hug Me.