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Then call me Queequeg
like Dana Scully’s mail,
I’ve got no sea-legs
I type but cannot sail

and at the keyboard
I’m a soft machine,
like I’m a ripcord,
ending the holocene

as I’m unfolding,
I am a parachute
there’s no handholding,
I’ll only execute

as I’m exploding,
I’ll be a cloud of cloth
when I am coding,
I’m cool like planet Hoth.