[Verse 1] Twelve pairs of curved bones cradle a drum, A cage built of calcium, humming and strummed, Seven up top shake hands with the chest plate direct, True to the sternum, no middleman to suspect, Eight, nine, ten borrow cartilage, a shared little bridge, False ribs still hug round, just off at the ridge, Eleven and twelve are the loners out back, Floating free in the muscle, no frontal attack. [Chorus] True, false, floating — count it down the rack, Seven shake hands, three share, two drift back, Sword in your chest, hilt to tip understood, Handle, blade, and point — all carved from bone, not wood. [Verse 2] Call it a sword if you want the whole scene, The manubrium's the handle, polished and lean, The body was once named gladiolus, small blade, The xiphoid tip is sword-shaped, the final stand made, Cartilage soft at the bottom, don't knead it too rough, It's flexible armor, but it bruises on a shove, Breathe in, it lifts like a drawbridge swinging wide, Breathe out, it settles — the sword sheathed at your side. [Verse 3] Old story claims Adam gave up a spare rib, So men come up short — a convenient fib, Count skeletons, count them, it's always the same, Twelve pairs for a woman, twelve pairs for the same, Vesalius cracked cadavers in fifteen-forty-three, Said "look with your eyes, not the old tapestry," He sketched what was real, hung the myth out to dry, Anatomy's honest — no sermon, no lie. [Chorus] True, false, floating — count it down the rack, Seven shake hands, three share, two drift back, Sword in your chest, hilt to tip understood, Handle, blade, and point — all carved from bone, not wood. [Verse 4] Sometimes a thirteenth rib sprouts from the neck, A cervical stowaway, rare little wreck, Half a percent, maybe one in a hundred, Pinching the nerves where the collarbone's thundered, Blood vessels squeezed, fingers tingle and fade, Thoracic outlet's the trouble it made, A hitchhiker bone nobody asked to attend, Causing a traffic jam round the bend. [Bridge] Snap a rib wrong and the pain owns the room, Every cough, every laugh turns a corset to doom, But break it in two spots, same rib, double woe, Flail chest — that segment moves backward and slow, While the rest of your chest pulls air deep and wide, That lonely flap caves in, paradox in your side, Splint it with breath, let the body decide, Bones are patient — they heal, given time on their side. [Chorus] True, false, floating — count it down the rack, Seven shake hands, three share, two drift back, Sword in your chest, hilt to tip understood, Handle, blade, and point — all carved from bone, not wood. [Outro] Twelve pairs, one sword, no missing rib at all, Vesalius proved it — stand by his call, Count your own cage, feel the rise and the fall, A sword in your sternum, standing guard, standing tall.
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