Fi Φ Phở fum

I smell the blood of an Engine Man
Who judges others whenever he can
He paces in a deliberate silence
Trying with might to retain his balance
He stinks of logic and paranoid sense
Frankly it is all just a pretense
Deep within he wants to scream and shout
From his fearful bottomless spout
He rages within while chaos consumes
As he locks himself in little square rooms

So I’ll find him and keep him in a cell
There he’ll stay until all’s well
I’ll heat up my pot of old cast iron
Until the fire roars like a lion
Then the water will surely boil
With a sprig of thyme and a dash of oil
Some sage for sense and rose for heart
Shortly after the magic will start

I’ll take the Engine Man out of his cell
And throw him in the bubbling well
There he’ll cook up rather nice
As I add a little sugar and spice
His skin will loosen from the bone
As he makes his final moan
Like a lobster in the chef’s pot
The screaming stops when it gets too hot

When hope is failing and fear is gone
The Engine Man has lost not won
If he ends up in the pot
His fate is to boil not rot

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