Hoarding is gross

Get rid of your cats,
Get rid of your beans
Get rid of your clothes
Get rid of your machines

You have too much stuff
None of us can breathe
You're buried in your crap
We cannot find Steve

He's been gone for weeks
I think he's dead now
It's starting to stink
Oh wait, it's been like that.

The wound, it does shape me
Not the knife, nor the shank

The blood, it does flow
Not the cabbage, nor the neck

I fly, though grounded
I swim, though drowning

Can't kite through the surface
Of mashed potatoes.

Do you know what?

Do you know what?
Because I do
He was a good, great friend
And always ate his shoe

For thirty years,
And twenty days more
He gave me his boxcar
That he got at the store.