I watched the drama forming on your tongue,
A mass of mold born from boiling slime
Fueled by the burning coals in your black lung.
Before it was sung I got out in time,
But little did I know you coughed a seed
Onto my spine. Soon I felt the first itch
Of that well-hid weed, which began to bleed
Up into my mind, and turned on a switch
Which tied all of my thoughts into tight knots
That became raw fuel for my own slime mold.
And I could no longer connect the dots,
And for a long time the truth went untold.
But when the slime dissolved in honesty’s salt,
I finally saw this wasn’t your fault.