You sleep on a bed of broken eggs and spilled milk
In the town square,
And no one's sure if you're unashamed
Or disabled.
We liked your red shoes until we realized
They were stained with your own blood,
And then when you left your foot prints everywhere,
The janitor set down a trail of yellow signs in your wake.
Can I spare some change?
Am I headed your way?
Would it be too much trouble?
I can't really tell which of us is selfish anymore,
And it seems like you don't want to be anywhere in particular anymore.
Don't want to crash on my couch.
Don't want to go home.
Don't want to wander.
Unable to fade away into the night,
Marked by your trail of oozed calamity
And signs that claim none of the liability.