The man at the other end of the line
Sounds bored and frustrated
Blame the end of the week for all you want
But reluctantly offered services
Have a terrible way of placidly carving
Their refusal in rebuttal right into
Consumer consciousness
Lady luck pulls up her drawers
And when I put down the phone
I know I will be sleeping, soundly it seems
Into a foreign, rented, used and abused bed
I'm adamant when I insist
That fire should reign over
The few brittle hours that happen to be
At our disposal
The battle wages on and the result
Is solemnly wished upon a falling star
Three hours into the show and all there is
To light the way of happiness
Is a kind of holier smoke
Owning to an excluding model
Of last-minute engineering feat
Burning embers soon appear over logged prey
And slowly twisting, crackling tongues
Of Corioli's very own petrol doused flames
Lick the ends of our collectively naked feet
Caress our exposed reddened bums
As we valiantly frolic on spring-less
Worked to death, obstinate couches
