You’re beeswax and I’m birdshit.
I’m mostly harmless. You’re irrational.
If I’m iniquity then you’re theft.
One of us is supercalifragilistic.
 
If I’m the most insane disgusting filth
you’re hardly curiosa.
You’re bubblewrap to my fingertips.
You’re winter sleep and I’m the bee dance.
 
And I am menthol and you are eggshell.
When you’re atrocious I am Spellcheck.
You’re the yen. I’m the Nepalese pound.
If I’m homesteading you’re radical chic.
 
I’m carpet shock and you’re the rail.
I’m Memory Foam Day on Price-Drop TV
and you’re the Lord of Misrule who shrieks
when I surface in goggles through duckweed,
 
and I am Trafalgar, and you’re Waterloo,
and frequently it seems to me that I am you,
and you are me. If I’m the rising incantation
you’re the charm, or I am, or you are.