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.