Notes On Gattaca
The over-arching fact:
Your blood aint’ yours.
The cold stew inside:
A gift from above.
The footnote truth:
Your flesh is doors.
The real structure:
Dots made of strings.
The hope to be seen:
Threads rearranged.
The un-plastic path:
Just sex and move on.
The human excellence:
Their blood aint’ theirs.
The help of this future:
A science untook down.
The quick-came end:
Cheat and get your dream.
The hope done gained:
Alone, great views, and no oxygen at all.
