Hymn Forfeit.

I want out.
Not that it's clear:
You were never even here.
Oh, catastrophe,
Do you like to sing me to sleep?
You're a sick mutt, a deranged lunatic.
And you hold my hands tightly
To your precious thoughts.
I never know what I'm to say to you.
I'm drowned out by clocks
And bombs of marmalade.
I need you.