In loops of chaos you bring me your worries,
your TV radiation and unsmelled gasses.
A training day, an industry standard,
and all the the things that we have not invented.
The tumble dries and the dead love flies,
all lying on your window cill, and still,
I am not for talking and I am not for sale.
My answer is not to your question,
the weeds, they have all overgrown,
grown all over your mobile throne.
And I have worries of my own.