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Fifteen stories high, the black curtains drawn, |
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and the sun is just a brat that spits then goes away. |
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The TV chatters, there's a pile of letters lying on the mat. |
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Reminders and bills, they smell of cats. |
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Three starving cats who chase each others shadows. |
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Curl up on him overnight they're scratching him they're biting him. |
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But he lost the will to fight, and he lost the will to move, simply lost the will to move. |
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It's been a month, will be another, 'til they're busting down the door. |
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And carry him away, and strip him clean and lock him in a padded box some fifteen stories high |
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where the sun is just a brat that spits then goes away. |
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The more it changes the more it stays the same |
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The more it changes the more it stays the same |
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The more it changes the more it stays the same |
