Hillside building, falling grass. Forest filling, velvet 
pass. Steplike structure, view commanding. Flatland 
feeding, homeland breeding. Can we see the years fast 
ticking, bringing us what will be past? Should I not say 
of my own land, “I will never build a house”? Human 
rabbits feeding, breeding, leading, needing normal lives. 
Bringing, banging, clanging, breathing smoke and soot, 
THE MAN ARRIVES. Some are thinkers with ideals. Some are 
thinkers with ideals. Some are running around waving 
to accomplish here. Electric growing, telecom going 
deeper and deeper into space. One day coming, all have 
plumbing. Save us from our frantic pace. Fearful feeling 
not withstanding. Hillside dream I not abandon. Still I 
stir this troubled question. Shall I wear my last clean 
sox? Shall I put them in a box? Should I wear them out? 
Should I have another stout? When I think I'm only 
spinning wheels in hopes of slowly pinning down in mind a 
firm conclusion, how the fuck to live my lifeÂ… 
MOTHERFUCKER