Where are you spilling me?
In a place where you could be killing me.
In a place I ought to be.
A place where angles don't fly for free.

Catch us if you can.
With little legs that run faster than a man.
With little toes that belong to small feet.
Little fingers that curve the street.

Smoking them or shooting them up
Do they bother you?
Stuck to shoes like glue.
A clever place to stay blown up
Perhaps the Last Supper lashed inside your cup.

You're not quiet ready for their eating
You're up there tired of sleeping.