Der Flügelflagel gaustert /
durchs Wiruwaruwolz, /
die rote Fingur plaustert, /
und grausig gutzt der Golz.
People stop me in the street, badger me in the check-out queue /
and ask "What is this, this that is so small and so very smooth, /
but whose mass is greater than the ringed planet?"/
It's just words. I assure them. But they will not have it.