With some — it's rough

With some — it's rough. With some — it's loud, Like a strip of litmus paper. More grit. Less gloss. The result: a handful with sense. The trouble's in the brain, In a layer of wax, Thinly spread along the grooves. Somewhere flat. Somewhere slick. Someone silently shoves a plank In your face, under your feet, Someone in your spokes. Things happen… Why get mad?