It's another perfectly plain day here
   nothing has gone up in flames yet   
        birds might be murmurating overhead
           the roof hasn't fallen in yet
This warehouse liberally sprayed with isms
   political correctness fucked off
        barn doors wide open call foul weather in
           and hot air spiked with dust takes off
A radio forces five or six tunes
   in time measured by boxes stacked
      till we get to see the last gleams of day
         birds in the bush chatter like mad
And if some fool didn't spill his pallet
   what would the poet have to write?
      Let some maniac with a knife rush in
         we'd all turn and see the light.