Everyone's unsatisfied,
And breaking their backs,
With sparks,
And iron,
And a furrowed, blackened face,
Fathers in studies,
Mothers love like little,
Scrappy dogs,
We are fending for ourselves,
In fully stocked cabinets,
And we are so tired,
Of concrete,
Right-angled living,
We need each other,
To forget how every vein,
Is contemplating rupture,
But from the courtesy,
Of telephone poles,
We sit in a sea of white tile,
With our sanity,
Going insane,
And we've washed our folded hands of the whole thing.
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