Spare

My attention span is running off

With my desire, they're getting hitched.

There goes my great body of work.

There goes my false sense of pride—

Like wet noodles sliding off the pan

To be ground up by the small intestine

Of the great publisher's club.

They build their gates out of words.

They build birdcages out of birds.

I think I saw a pussy cat, I think I am a pussy cat.

Except birdsong won't get me down.

Rafts made out of pages won't get me down.

Pretty extroverts won't get me down.

Stupid introverts won't get me down.

Being on the down won't get me down.

Nothing in this place can get me down

Except your fine, loose, spare sort of care.