as it implicates its own demise, an imprecise device,
it resides under an old dresser, half broken, disheveled
it is ready to debate against its own existence
but in itself it'd always revel

it's set up to be undone, bait in the waiting room of hell
moth-eaten in a musty basement, left to teeter on the verge
of addressing the most difficult one, dressing us up, to
tear apart the carefree air with a drunken singalong dirge