This is not about Isis
This is about the Holy accounts in a book, near an oasis
The whole idea, of you and me, being identical
The matter is very much non-political
It is a truth, pretty quite empirical
Indeed, every bit of you and me is just mathematical
A mare tiny drop of fluid, composed of mineral
All glued together in some ways, that is no more mystical
We are in essence very much spiritual
Unfortunately, these days, the common focus is fiscal
The act of you and me to be, is gentle and physical
The source of it all, electrical charges turned emotional
At the prosperous gate, I begged for an autograph
In there eminence, a carved name, like hieroglyph
For generations to look back on it, like a photograph
The lost message was sent, by a mystical telegraph
Too many details with too tittle options
Too may options with too little details for the operations
A world of irony
A space of mare folly
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