One morning I woke myself imperfect,
so I took the right line
(easy like a flake)
from the ghost of Cygnus
(thin like something palpable),
and, contradicting the earthling Euclid,
I arched it like a bow,
knotting it around my neck.

I went through
markets and streets of the galaxy,
and all the people, absolutely all,
shouted after me:

"What a wry right line is that!
What a right man is this,
with a right line around his neck!"