insanity scratched on tabletops
amid the coffee rings
and the cookie crumbs
fallen from errant lips
into the laps of pretty girls
Scritch
Scratch
Scritch
Scratch
it's still getting carved out
though we sip our mochas
and go on with life
we turn on the indie station
to drown out the sound
of Elliot's dry claws
they're still scuttling, don't you know
Scritch
Scratch
Scritch
Scratch
Perhaps we have become Leda
but this is no swan
just a harsh black crow
with even harsher sounds
lurking above the doorway
of this society's coffee shop
waiting to do it there
