Don’t let the century end; for the past twenty weeks I’ve been sleeping by the shotgun waiting to get slain, with the windows closed and the desk lights switched on.
Don’t let the century end; for the past seven days I’ve been listening to the plugs hum.
And now I’m falling asleep again.
Don’t let the century end; counting the tears, counting damage that the bugs done.
Chewing on a silver spoon, I’m often glad it wasn’t born in your mouth.