So-called perfection can't have children, a world of all this bliss, blots of pumice and fields of rye. I'm terse, I'm angry, a baby horse in the barn, I look down on anyone in a blue suit, if I like someone, I don't like them too much, I don't like anyone too much, October breeze makes the bat-wing shaped leaves shake in the trees, freshly web-spun spiderwebs and they're quite furious, just waiting on the cold, salt, rain.