Belts and wind and whistling teakettles,
--thus sings the gas-stove daydream--
They were all in the same league,
Forever-time winners of loudest screams.

But there are louder streams to drown in,
Deeper oceans and darker seas with harsher flow.
Moses opened up a red one once, I hear,
Someone whispers the name into another Merlot.

And life ain't fair to poor old Atlas,
He's sitting prostrate on the floor,
And he wonders if the world was worth it,
And he forgets this room ever had a door.

Listen to the static buzz topped with a 'v,'
The only window left for their escape.
The only window that won't open,
But they always denied that it was ****.

John Wayne is dancing by through the night,
And the world fills with his earthly glow.
With scalp in hand and women in tow, he says,
"Son, great oaks from little acorns grow."

And life ain't fair to poor old Atlas,
He's sitting prostrate on the floor,
And he wonders if the world was worth it,
And he forgets this room ever had a door.

Television flicker is the only company to nightly moans,
Reruns of memories and dreams run like paint
And the fumes hurt their eyes and burn their skin
More than the stench of day old saint.

I guess they forgot that skin was more than feeling,
They forgot that eyes were more than seeing,
They forgot that surviving was more than forgetting
And they forgot that living was more than being.

And life ain't fair to poor old Atlas,
He's sitting prostrate on the floor,
And he wonders if the world was worth it,
And he forgets this room ever had a door.