Blue, blue, sharp and hot
Sizzling, the glistening edge of a knife
It leaves deep punctures in my ears

Yet I do not bleed,
I just form
In the blue, blue, sharp heat

Down the street a little, that’s right
To the home of the seamstress, who sews the strands of my golden hair
And leaves her husband to the forming of my clay ears

Camera lights, bright lights,
All the creation of a bored mind
A beautiful, young, yet blue, blue, mind growing hot

I return to my little house
Where hands of white prod me until I am perfectly twisted
And make sure my hair falls just right over my ears

What can I infer from this, besides that
We all see through glass bead eyes
(Blue, blue, dull, and hardly left hot)
And we only hear ourselves with manufactured ears