The world spins on its axis, like some clay
Between a potter's hands upon a wheel,
Though in our case the potter's gone away,
So it is scarce a wonder that we feel
On the verge of imminent disaster,
Whilst hoping, against hope, to be a pot.
Shoot off into space if we go faster.
Go slower - we'll collapse upon the spot.
We've been armed with language to do battle
With our panic, to make it make some sense -
But you can't corral a herd of cattle,
When all you have in hand is one short fence.
Unsurprising then we feel stamped.
Where is that damn potter, now he's needed?