like those clever traps a bit of wire a rusty barb I've seen some people set and never check for prey
there are tripwires in the righteous sneers of some of us
in their boots they carry the seeds of all those vines they cut
in the papers of the pigs and the whispers of the kids there was one word
feels like this room is getting small, we're only talking to the walls

take heed, warning, whisper, not me

this is just snare and snarl, raccoon blood and kerosene
a wasted feeling, eating paper like a trick
by this threadbare chord held together so we're connected tightly but only just
feels like this room is getting small, soon there will be no room at all