The stench of perm and d**h permeates this place That defends against the permanent rest Becoming what we see and what we read in the obituaries We are what we eat and what we drink yet we abuse our bodies Thinking that maybe the truths of it may set us free If freedom is a slow suicide Getting paid minimum wage to contemplate mortality every other day I see the cold, I see the alone, I see the too old to live on their own And it gets to this blank excuse for a beating in the chest That I throw into a heart shaped gla** filled with ice to keep it alive