It isn't safe, but it's not sorry; the gas is growing crystals in the lungs
It's not bad, but it's not perfect: maybe this is just a trial run
Is this my house? Do I own free weights?
I am a f**ing man, my chromosome's a forked tongue
It's my garage: it's my gas, my car, my time, and my enclosure
Don't be last, and don't be lonely. See a special kind of timing in the leap
Don't be cruel, don't be annoying, don't sell yourself short
Is this my ring? I must have four kids
The dimpled plastic roof is not quite yellow
Are these my hands? They look like trees choked out by vines
Is this my breath? It's more like gun-smoke?
Two fingers pulling greasily at chicken
Is that the sun? It looks too sharp and clean:
A bubble filling endlessly with air
Is this my friend? It feels to forced for that
It isn't wrong, but it's not quite right
Now living feels like whispering at night
I have a couch, I have a TV now