Weasels In A Box

Hey! Wake in the gray where the walls learn my shape. Cheap light, thin air, that familiar scrape. I sign what they slide me, then stare at the seam. All that motion, all that keeping-the-mean. They said keep still, keep small, keep sweet. But every box has a pulse underneath. Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! Weasels in a box! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! That’s the lock, that’s the thought! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! Weasels in a box! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! Turn and turn till we rot! Names, rules, reflections — each one split in two. A grin in the glass, but it isn’t quite you. The joke, the trap, the familiar noise. A small bright panic with no real voice. They said keep still, keep small, keep sweet. But every box has a pulse underneath. Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! Weasels in a box! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! That’s the lock, that’s the thought! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! Weasels in a box! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! Turn and turn till we rot! Too alive for the shelter, too small for the air. What keeps us here? What keeps us hard? Not the walls — but the wanting in the dark. Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! Weasels in a box! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! That’s the lock, that’s the thought! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! Weasels in a box! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! Turn and turn till we rot! Hey!