Oh little spikey spinning sphere,
drifting across the fresh clear air,
you think you’ll hijack my machine
for replication of your genes.

Something inside does multiply;
so small I can’t fathom its size,
but still it squeezes out the me
any would know from memory.

Your song and dance are done to Death,
making Crazy like Lady Macbeth.
But do not forget that last Act;
in ambition is writ the wrack.