This is a sad fuckin' song

We'll be lucky if I don't bust out crying



How does it feel?

Your night light, your curling iron

Lit up by the sweat of others,

For many's the day

But not from November to May



The floor is littered

With woodchips and apple cores

And hulls (holes?) of acorns

There is a chattering sound



Because they were squirrels; real squirrels.

(And there were thousands)

This isn't some kind of metaphor,

Goddamn, this is real *David Woodhhead