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Another suburban family morning. |
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Grandmother screaming at the wall. |
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We have to shout above the din of our |
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Rice Crispies |
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We can't hear anything at all. |
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Mother chants her litany of boredom and frustration, |
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But we know all her suicides are fake. |
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Daddy only stares into the distance |
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There's only so much more that he can take. |
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Many miles away something crawls from the slime |
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At the bottom of a dark |
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Scottish lake. |
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Another industrial ugly morning |
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The factory belches filth into the sky. |
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He walks unhindered through the picket lines today, |
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He doesn't think to wonder why. |
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The secretaries pout and preen like cheap tarts in a red light street, |
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But all he ever thinks to do is watch. |
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And every single meeting with his so-called superior |
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Is a humiliating kick in the crotch. |
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Many miles away something crawls to the surface |
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Of a dark |
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Scottish lake. |
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Another working day has ended. |
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Only the rush hour hell to face. |
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Packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes. |
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Contestants in a suicidal race. |
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Daddy grips the wheel and stares alone into the distance, |
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He knows that something somewhere has to break. |
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He sees the family home now looming in the headlights, |
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The pain upstairs that makes his eyeballs ache. |
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Many miles away there's a shadow on the door |
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Of a cottage on the shore |
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Of a dark |
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Scottish lake... |
