He sits on the porch and listens to thunder
Roll on in the distance as darkness envelops
The world that surrounds him,
Which is normal enough-
It's eight in the p.m.-
And there's nobody
Really that eager to see him.
He's a mess and a half, or maybe three-quarters,
His life is in shambles and he's well aware;
The scariest part's that he don't seem to care.

There aren't any predators out for his hide;
Well, save for one, from which he can't hide.
You'd think without worry he'd find time to soar-
But he's stuck in a house built only of doors-
Doors that all open and work perfectly fine,

But on them he just hangs pictures of people and completely forgets
that the doors are doors
and that the floors are floors
and he rests his stupid head down on the floorboards
as his house is not furnished;

it's empty and bare...

save for out on the porch

where sits only a chair.