[Verse 1] [spoken, deadpan] It's Sunday, technically. I'm working. I'm drafting a theory of consciousness on a couch with a cushion shaped like me. Somewhere a kettle begins a small revolution. [Verse 2] She asks if I could, you know, possibly move. I say I'm in position. Sit still, wait for the thought to walk by, that's an ancient technique. It's in the genes. [Chorus] I'm not lazy, I'm ancestral It's a sit-and-wait adaptation Forty thousand years of ambush Don't you dare call it vacation (he's not lazy) I'm not lazy, I'm ancestral I am hunting an idea [Verse 3] The washing machine hits its spin cycle like a distant drum of war. She's folding something. She's winning something. I've never seen the score. [Bridge] [music drops, spoken] Okay. Fine. She's holding the whole house together with one hand and a very small spoon. And I'm holding a blanket, and calling it a perimeter. [Final Chorus] I'm not lazy, I'm ancestral (she hands me a bowl) I'm not lazy, I'm... hungry (the ambush worked) I'm not lazy, I'm ancestral Thank you for the soup.
