A chain of little waves, round and round we go. Until it makes a little pop, and the wine can flow.

Above the world where pigeons play, A ceiling high, a place to stay. Lift your gaze where chimneys meet, A hidden realm beneath your feet.

In this sticky situation, your feet refuse to rise. A muddy mess where progress is a prize. It traps the unwary, like quicksand's sly kin, pulling you deeper the more you try to win.

Fly fly, but not away, Sing, sing, here to stay

My vocabulary is very limited if a basic one is used. The elementary leetspeak elicited giggles when abused. Some people can do without me, mentally solving their dues. But others use me for simpler things; they have no time to lose.