There is a writhing tendril

Of frying oil ‘gainst the sky

It is wrapping ‘round your arms it seems

Ain’t it so easy to die?

To bite upon the little-death

And hide inside the dreams

Spoon-fed to you as minnow chum

By paper in its reams

Learn to love your mother

And com-mu-ni-ty

Forget how the organs sound

Against the last tree

But nothing

In your everything

Will get you nowhere