Seven thousand sins

Inside little bins.

Why do we look

For the gitchy-gitchy goop?

Dry your eyes,

Hide your wives.

Someone's in the mist

A grip 'round your wrist.

Bushes, triangles and planes,

Landing where it rains.

Closer, perhaps,

Until the door cracks.

Alliteration for our discretion,

Wipe when you're done.

For those are the seeds

No one ever needs.