When you move not your eyes high to squint at the skies,
that’s curare.
When you can’t cry or whine; like cubed ice is your spine,
that’s curare.
You can’t bring to your nose your fing-er for extracting
encrusting, picker feller.
Gone away, digit movement; stay in place you today; sniff-allay
hinder-smeller.

Lips aren’t parted to pule; you can’t start a large drool:
peux pas parler.
No dancing down the street: out of luck are your feet.
And above:
you can’t talk, you can’t scream; you can’t vote for no scheming
scam foray.
Moving free cannot be. . .static postprandially. . .
snack’s curare.

When you move not your thighs like entwined gals and guys,
that’s curare.
When you can’t cry, opine, and can’t unwind your spine,
scant cures are made.
You can’t bring to your toes your fing-er for extracting
encrusting, picker feller.
Gone away, digit movement; stay in place you today; can’t go play
Tinder, feller!

Sphincter parts not, so you’ll start no fart; darts no stool
from your arse bay.
No dancing down the street: as if mud-stuck, your feet.
And above:
you can’t squawk, you can’t scream; you can’t go, there’s no streaming
departs, eh?!
Moving free cannot be. . .panic! foes packed your tea
with curare.