** ** Tight social circles smoking paper cranes Their tactile hair do-s can't stand the rain Narrow fingers clad in turquoise rings Coax and prod the synthetic bird Till it sings Wispy smoke exits in a leisurely fashion It’s lush but dreary Their lungs beg the query Is there joy in our stale tongues and cupped hands Given the chance Would we fight the man ** ** Most things are going pretty bad And I just sit around folding paper and making tea Trying to see If the edges line up Most thin...