This is a sad f**ing song
We'll be lucky if I don't bust out crying
How does it feel?
Your night light
Your curling iron
Lit up by the sweat of others
For pennies a day
But not from November to May
The floor is littered
With wood chips and apple cores
And hulls of acorns
There is a chattering sound
Because they were squirrels
Real squirrels
And there were thousands
This isn't some kind of metaphor
Goddamn, this is real