Daringly we bring it to a boilnBearing all the flesh before we courtnYour skin is on firenMy mouth is wide opennnIntuition imperfectednIn decisions discerning younWhat do I do? What do I do?nMy hand of anger, your lips of bluennSeems like now that the chances we makenFair as well as the chances we fakenThe fate of the facts is the force we follownThe front is fine but the back isnToo shallow and vainnWhy do I try to complain?