Is it the fault of God or I that I,
Have risen to this cliff so high and dry,
And will upon the edge of pleasure always lie,
Waiting for one coming through the rye?

Gloved hands tear up a ciabatta roll,
And envious eyes think of their hole.

And did those chunky heels tread through my door And find soft carpeted purchase on my floor,
Their owner riding on my face forlorn,
Sweet tongue of mine now adorned?

Upon bedsheets made with care, cover up
My secret shames and all my pastures bare.
Cry panic and let slip the nip of war
Before the tour of all you haven't seen before.