the woodland satellites
are sailing
squealing
dodging trunks

they run up the trees
(launching pads)
only to ball up
with their tails
bushing up
in their faces

spiraling
through the air
squealing

with delight
they squeal

rabbits
squirrels
badgers
skunks
whatever the hell you can think of
in the woods

they fly between the trees
woodland creatures
satellites in the
treetops

woodland satellites

life is like a prison
they birth you
in shackles

life is like
well it's such a prison

fuck

that's all i can say
it just is

not that I want out
just yet

(what a mess that makes)

at least i can deal with the warden
his face is just like mine
he smells the same as me
in his pits

outside
on the outside none of us
rightly remember
but we're sure you either live
in the desert
or the oasis
with B-Bub
or the self-appointed president of everything [god]

no chance to start out wet
working your way up
middle-classing

nope

you just stick with his lowness
or his highness

you burn with B-Bub
or go blind looking at JC

so it's not so bad in here
this life prison

shit

at least i can deal with the warden

now swollen
I wonder
aloud

can I possibly infiltrate
this band of the incestuous
with my own band

?

too obvious what's on my mind
need a fresh
smell
to please those
gods
as critics

what's the purpose
?
anymore

I just dodged a bullet
-shaped
idea
, one stale with
last summer's stink

need a new
smell

and you've got to
help