And all ends lead to more things,
And if one soul’s left who calls
Them things, some of them are good,
And on past the road’s next bend.
Left. Turn left! No one is right.
The fact wheels on the sense, mean
As a snake that slips its grip;
Old fact spins and sinks fangs in.
There you are, side of the road,
Half-dead, dazed and stunned the world
Bit your shin. Ah, all good things.
