Spilled
from IT'S HARD TO GET THE ANGLE RIGHT

Itís not the liquid spreading on the floor,

A half a minuteís labor with the mop;

Itís everything youíve ever spilled, and more.


The stupid broken spout that wouldnít pour;

The nasty little salesman in the shop.

Itís not the liquid spreading on the floor,


A stain perhaps, a new, unwelcome chore,

But scarcely cause for sobs that will not stop.

Itís everything youíve ever spilled, and more.


Itís the disease for which there is no cure,

The starving child, the taunting brutal cop.

Itís not the liquid spreading on the floor


But through a planet, rotten to the core,

Where things grow old, get soiled, snap off, or drop.

Itís everything youíve ever spilled, and more:


This vision of yourself you canít ignore,

Poor wretched extra clinging to a prop!

Itís not the liquid spreading on the floor.

Itís everything youíve ever spilled, and more.