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Every day you're squeezed through a tube
And spill into the land of oily fluorescence;
You shine your teeth for the men and their noobs
And they hand you a hammer and they give you three guesses.
The Buff-weiler hands you a stack-full of rungs
And a corner to prop up your chair
While the Wuff-beiler stands - yes he stands on your tongue
And sows rows of snow in your hair.
"Go, little people, go,
Under panes held fast
To the fifty-seven bus
Grow little people grow
By adding them to rain
Arranging them in games
Dutiful monogamies
And other sad refrains"
Roll out your horizons for the feet and knees and thighs
Of all the captains in this ship within a bottle.
Breathing sweet surprises, fixing them upon the glassy skies
And feeling under your seat for that pea.
"Go, little people, go,
In portable cocoons
Woven up with tunes
Grow little people grow
Arranging them in lanes
Labeling the days
Scratching out trajectories
And other sad refrains"
Every day you're breathing through a tube,
Drinking-in the oil of sugary indifference;
You trust your feet as they're caressed in the gloom,
Fingers worming, yearning for the soil of magnificence.
"Go, little people, go,
Worshipers of wheels
And little rubber seals
Grow little people grow
Clinging to the waves
With their buckets and their spades
Sandcastle economies
Tidal bureaucracies
Grinning patriocities
And other sad refrains"
