Blue tins lay empty on sands of wood,
Filters make white snow with plastic,
Fever pitched stockings rolled up tight,
Controls bleak and always wait fantastic.
Dripping coffee now cold and washed,
Wires forever tangled in high praise,
The scarf of money and flags of states,
That damn bucket ticking ants raise.
One sees mountains of dust and cleaner,
Spectacles closed and never used,
A fridge jolts into suppression and angst,
Purple papers stretched and flat fused.
Ah the wind cleans many a weary mind,
For Sunday we pray and forgive all sin,
My back aches for a time in my youth,
God help us out of our made home din.