Grappling and tugging,
An anchor of sorts,
I suppose.
Wouldn't want to touch it,
It's slippery, slimy.
The walls are crumpled paper
Or crumbs in a porcelain bowl.
A little house of its own,
It has no windows,
Little space.
There's a hole in the top
With its hair stood tall,
Saying hello to the blue.
It knows no day but
What it does know,
Oh, what it does know...

It knows life.