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Warm Blanket Distortion
A lilting wasp upon fellow mites
Finds a lack of true delight
Mixing joy with noxious grief
On bends to find his tempered needs
He learns to shed his self-control
For yearning roles which no one knows
And on respite he'll be a cog
To turn within machine man's locks
Addled by smoke but comforted too
He feels the warmth and settles soon
Accepting defeat, laying the stone
Upset by morning and its needless hello
The static brings a louder side
Within it hides a great divide
That serves to disconnect him so
Left to bake in the ovens below
A moth to the switch to fry on the dry
He learns to debate his moral outcry
And when he feels sober he'll rise to the day
And work for eight hours until he feels dead again.
