Some are hot from a stove,
Or specks of sand on a beach
Others rocks in a cove,
Mumbling seawater speech.
Some take mass in a bowl,
Food from a hungry plate.
Others are hot and angry,
Waiting for a check from the state.
Some write lead from a pencil,
Bright as an perpetual flame,
Others are ink from a pen,
Blacker than lines in your name.
A bit of mud from a puddle,
Drips from the soul of my shoes,
Some are cops in a fuddle,
Who skipped on their union dues.
Me I'm a berg from a glacier,
Birthed with a terrible boom,
All but drops in a river,
Who fall towards eventual doom.
