My brain is tart with fowl speech and low ideas made high, in a land where high ideas are sly and evil but disguisedly so. Follow the birds. Into the fall. It is the end and the doom that secretly spies you and waits for your fall, O' her's approach. Pounce! Your caught, and the trap is inescapable, a slow poison numbs your mind and wits and ability, while a low idea trickles by on the sly.