It's not in an instance statistics exist, That's not what the image implicit predicts. The thing is as noisy as drunken mistaking That sings with the boys of love for the taking, Then slinks home awhisper in creaking the stairset And thinks to deliver by speaking the careless. In day and by day it just fidgets with madness In way and new way it must visit in antics, But watch it with gossip from rooftop unnoticed And posit its habits come often to focus. The magic of fractions is part is a sickness That tragic is standing in art as a witness To whole that can grow just as quick as the year is In soul that explodes just as big as the fearless.