There seems to be more every day
coming and going through the old grey double doors
Mob of Mason Bees buzzing without terminus
two to a room, fifty in total and they’re all flying solo

Three bees, five nightcrawlers and two flat-nosed bats sleeping the wrong way up
Single misplaced souls in a realm owned by seven billion

The voices locked outside swallow the ones within
sometimes the in and out might blend into a single strained tune
The unbearable screeches carry down the halls
brushing a cold fist against every door and with it the smell of hot blood

The voices will sing, and the crawlers will creep
They wait until night when half the world goes dark

Solo is the kindest name for the song
The lonely name which rhymes with the kindred terms of “sicko” and “pyro”
We’re all flying solo down here in the quiet burrow
everyone’s afraid they’re be the next to go

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday
Weekends are free days, Sunday is God’s day
The circle of life until everyone is stamped free
don’t let them see what’s underneath
Or else risk the 1978 Cadillac Sedan Deville of reputations
where do these people get their degrees?

Three bees, five nightcrawlers and two flat-nosed bats walk through the double doors
Welcome to the madhouse we say, we welcome them with open arms

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