the sky is falling. what an awful sound. we shot holes in it. now it’s hit the ground. the trees are calling. they’re saying please don’t cut me down. you know you’re going to miss me when i’m not around. the air is appalling. better move out of town. because the sky is falling. and that’s what’s coming down. the clouds are fleeting. the rain has all but disappeared. it’s worse than we hoped. it’s everything we feared. the children are calling. saying how could you let us down. how could you just sell it off. and watch our green land turn brown. the sky is falling. what an awful sound. the trees are calling. they’re saying please don’t cut me down. you know you’re going to miss me when i’m not around. and that’s when doubt sets in. and gnaws away at self esteem. and those other flimsy veils that hide what you really mean. who runs away and is unsettled by light little breezes. that whisper those thoughts and truths that once would sooth you. but now they freeze you. oh paxtons we love you. patron saint of the dole bludgers. you made them putrid with polyester outrage. oh paxtons we salute you. you were the voice of the people. the job-refusal trio. they wanted you to cut your hair and say thank you ray. but you knew better. you sent a letter to the taxpayer. and you didn’t even use stamps. oh paxtons we love. shane and bindi and the other one. but where are you now. down in the garden alone with a book you get this pleasant remote sort of look. as you flirt with ideas. and camels and turbans on men who are fierce. and beautiful women. with rings that pierce. and sensuous eyes that remind you of fears. that have lived in a room you’ve kept locked for years. and though they are dark and occasionally leer. they give you some peace. and they give you some cheer. that for all the trouble they’re just ordinary fears. like all the cigarettes you’ve smoked all the years. like the drinks. and the drugs. and the directions you’ve veered. like the stains on your mattress. just blood sweat and tears.