| When I was a baby I could close the world | |
| Up in fleshy pink mitts | |
| Now the world flays the infant palms | |
| And the bones drip out in its spit | |
| When I was small I reached up so high | |
| And grasped at the morning star | |
| Now the wormwood topples down on me | |
| And smashes all my parts | |
| When I was a child my bones spread out | |
| Like peacock feathers alive | |
| Now the feathers wilt like cancerous boils | |
| Leaving sagging pores in my hide | |
| When I was of age I saw a gate so wide | |
| And a path so broad for the taking | |
| But the road to everything led to a cliff | |
| Where I sprawled out naked and aching | |
| Now that I'm old I see the light | |
| And I see it was never there | |
| Everything leads to nothing | |
| Nowhere and I don't even care | |
| I don't even care | |
| I don't even care | |
| I don't even care | |
| I don't |
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