The sap pouring from my mind
Doesn’t always flow like milk and honey.
The gears clog and don’t unwind
Stopped by a wrench thrown
Into the cogs until they grind.
Refine this sap. Boil it down.
Heat it to two-hundred nineteen degrees
One quart from the gallons in which I drown
Now take that quart, and pour it over
The gears, slowed down by that thick brown.