Come ye people, come ye friends both faithless and devout, from every neighbr'n town. Wrap your fingers in my belt, hoist away your doubt and turn me upside down. Take it from me, drag it from my corpse; shake these pockets out. A small empty box, some smooth marble rocks, and a note to myself is all you'll find in there.

My fashionless free box, take it when you go. Keep the things that fit and wear them in September. My bag full of plastic, my cardboard and carpet scraps — use them in some skit that your friends won't remember. Knee-length socks, alternative rock, and a game with some bards is all you'll find in here.

I've made a moderate fold in the flag of a country that I'm only half-indebted to, undefining my role for a few years but making sure that it's written down in blue chalk. If you get me to talk then I'll hit you with the items I think I must return truly back into circulation now that I'm slowly getting through.