Strangers speaking solemn things,
symptoms seeking to be free.
They just wanna stay for now.
Backwards, buildings stood so tall.
Brushed off, broke down, the old sprawl.
Easy to mistake that place.
Handle and holes.
Step up, no bottom.
Just can’t figure it out.
The best time was the worst time,
but one of these days these get filled.
Struggling systems steer to end.
Seeping, soggy truth gets bent.
Little time to dry out.
Buckets billow empty thought,
briefly bask in what they’re not.
Why not have fun with it all?
Fill em up, fill em up.
Flipping all these buckets.
Fill em up, fill em up.
Gently moving buckets.
this is your life chuck johnson 