Squirrel Song

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