Rumble scrape begs the dickens loll

Tell the flying hammer that it leaps far

From its home near the ear and the face

Flash frozen and framed by its loving owner

Who tastes not of its inanimate anguish

As it hammers close the door

That we all must step through

And come laying and praying to

With our priests and preachers

Our books and words

To that door that does not know our names

And will not lend you its own