The room is flooded with smoke, the walls stained
Nicotine and water spots. No one who lives here
Gives a fuck. The ashtrays overflow and the
Rayon orange shag

Occasionally catches fire. There’s two girls knitting
And passing a burnt lightbulb between the two of
Them in the living room. No one knows their names
And are too scared

To ask. Everyone else is a too skinny
Of a guy and on the verge of passing out, because
After two days, the beer’s all gone and they’re
All broke, not

That any of them had any money to begin with.
We’re here because somewhere there’s an old
Pal from college you used to sell pot to and a
Refrigerator full of

Food that no one’s interested in eating but us.
We try to stay quiet while we cook. There’s this
Wild-eyed motherfucker who lives in his car
In the driveway,

But he’s always inside because it’s thirty degrees
and he’s scared to fall asleep with the heater on
with the way the snow’s been felling lately, in
big fat choking

flakes. The second he sees us, he makes a beeline,
standing too close, asking if we’re missionaries?
If we’re taking the Good Word to people of this
Shithole, hellfire and

Brimstone Sodom of a town? No matter how
Many times we tell him: “Naw, we’re just in
Town looking for jobs.” He’s always disappointed
With what we

Have to say. As he walks away, head shaking,
he’ll look back and say through a mouthful
Of brown, broken teeth:

“You look like the children of god.”

Evening Soundtrack: Guided By Voices