This is a sad f**kin' song
We'll be lucky if I don't bust out crying
How does it feel
Your night light your curling iron
Lit up by the sweat of others
For pennies a day
But not from November to May
The floor is littered
With woodchips and apple cores
And hulls
Holes husks
Of acorns
There is a chattering sound
Because they were squirrels real squirrels
And there were thousands
This isn't some kind of metaphor
Godd**n this is real
