In loops of chaos you bring me your worries,
your TV radiation and unsmelled gasses.
A training day,
an industry standard,
all the things we have not yet invented.

The tumble dries,
and the deadlove flies,
all lying on your window sill,
yet still,
I am not for talking,
I am not for sale.
My answer is not to your question.
And the weeds?
The weeds they have all overgrown,
grown all over your mobile phone.

And I have worries of my own.
Those I have not yet invented.