Oil Preened, and Oil sheened. doesn't mean I'm totally mean.
Black as night Dark for fight Doesn't mean I have no light.
Plus . . . I can see right through to you. you'r a bit of darkling too . . .
We all have space juice in our veins. We've all been pulled by wicked reins
the question is if we'll fly to heights and leave behind these oily nights.
I, for one, am stained right through the dark in me it sticks like glue.
but . . . I've heard a rumor. out there flapping about a washing from all our trapping.
Could this inky oil go? slide off of me like ancient snow?
and would I really make the change? to leave my days of sweet derange?
it's hard I want to guard to remain hard but . . . to be clean?
I've worn this liquid ash for years. bathed my head in tarrish fears
but, if it's true this stain removes
then I will go where grace behooves
for though I've traipsed the dusk and night . . .
Inside I've always longed to be snowy white . . .