He can fit your entire head in his hand. He squeeze, it throbs, all wide eyes and tight grips. Those giant mitts try to wring us out and we still sit in its palms. (During the day you laugh like a sad sign in place of an answer And then had to be polite when everyone saw that you were sweating.) But at night I get swollen in white leather and black rubber And one fat layer of sweat. My face is brushed with the devil's fruit And I don't have to think about tomorrow again.