Over in the city they grow them fat.
Even their dreams have gotten lazy;
A new dinette.
You know they don’t even walk anymore.
They buy treadmills.
Their treadmills have cup holders.
When I walk
they beep their angry car horns,
and look mad.
Furious that I could pollute their commute.
Thats why I don’t shave
so that I look like they need me to.
Give them something to bring up at the next
Life to them is just something to endure,
there’s something wrong with that.