Uncaged canaries into a coal mine, my fingers crossed for you.

Shame and desperation comes in waves.

And it’s strange how you make Overton look like Ames.

The zip-tied wrists of the fever-kissed have been waiting for this.

While we soak in pools of barbiturates amazed by all of it.

For the best of us won’t make it out the mine

But they’ll name a tie on their rail for you.

Trace the blame.

The talking heads in khaki,

Their pockets sick and bullfrog-shaped men offer nothing.

All for one and one for every stunted soul.

It’s the only thing that can’t be took: control.

Like pages torn from burning books.

Our privileged ignorance of floating fish and heavy metals rinsed into the basins of environments, with each mine collapse a Churchill gets its rings.

If the best of us don’t make it out alive

They’ll name a brick in their wall for you.

Trace the blame.

The talking heads in khaki,

Their pockets sick and bullfrog-shaped men offer nothing.

Can we just call this what it is? Sleight of hand.

At best, a rabbit from the hat rr a drunken wedding band.

One for all until it falls.

[If we pull mercy from the wayside,

Focusing in on how we treat each other,

Your wringing hands could undo wrongs.

It’s all for one.]

Trace the blame.

The talking heads in khaki,

Their pockets sick

And Bullfrog-shaped men offer nothing.

Can we just call this what it is? It’s sleight of hand.

It’s a fucking lip-synched Lindsay Lohan.

A future lit by street lamps.

So one for all until it falls.