These are the things that got you harassed: your skinny arms, your bleeding heart, you're kind of cruel, you showed you're smart, you played it dumb, you love your mom, you never speak, you won't shut up. There's tension in ten different tenses. They always said you could win if you'd swing for the fences, now nobody knows where the money went. It used to just fall like the rain on the pavement. Which way will you go: collapse or explode? Don't talk about what's got you possessed: what turns your crank, what gets you off, where you're weak, the ones you love, what keeps you on the rails, why you embrace your private jail. They know we're way too invested to come to our senses. Suburban jackrabbits stay brave, though it ends every time with you smeared on the pavement. They don't know which way's up since they kiboshed the census. There's nobody like you in parliament; they don't know what it's like to spend nights on the pavement. You're not human so much as an arsenal of defences. We march down the sidewalk in lockstep, hands in our pockets and our eyes on the pavement. Which way will you go?