Eyes stare with views askew at the untouched dew. Pointing needles at their faces, as if their ideals might turn contagious. A suave figure sets its sights, on a lamb grazing among the woodland pines, tumbling in its head uses for the hide, such a comely lamb might soon provide. "A lamb is best butchered in its youth, yet a mutton bound and dressed, could so too their hunger soothe." The figure to itself would confess. Too young they are perceived, too old they free from the watchers. Simply to not fall through the ugly sieve, And be marked homely by the worldly archers. And so they sing to a nation a song of painful change. A song of mutilation, and of pointless strange. "Play a tune on this part. Oily veins you can rip apart. Tarnished flesh you can compress. Crooked bones you can depress. Oh POP. Played a sharp. Rip off some skin to polish and hair to clean. Play a tune on this part. Keratin moons you can click. Calcium pits you can flick. Meaty pump you can depart. Oh CRASH. You played a major. Not enough hide left to wager. Sweep it up with a leg. Play a tune on this part. Clavicle you can tap. Mandible you can crack . Retina you can pluck. Oh CRACK. Broken again? Nothing left to make a plan." Closing up. Stitches many. Many too few. Plenty.