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 pennies a day
But not from November to May
The floor is littered
With woodchips and apple cores
And hulls (holes, husks?) 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