so here we now lie
in the underbelly of the ship.
the crew has been reduced
to skeleton configuration,
water seeps everywhere
as pumps fire and klaxons blare.
alternating heat and absence thereof
wreak havoc on tired joints
and overworked muscles
and stainless steel;
random jolts of energy
keep us from keeling over
as we mindlessly react
to barked orders and dulled needs.
and through all the pain,
the music never dies.

each rat that flees
takes with it that much comfort,
although comfort dies quick
when taken into account
what he has to come home to-
and they thought the ship was bad.
growing up we thought this life
was lived only in the movies
by people in a bad way;
i guess that means now
we're in a bad way too,
with only water to be eaten
and concrete for comfort
and a small portable radio
that won't turn off so that
the music never dies.

stale cheez balls
provide lasting nourishment now
in this world of the unnatural
that we inhabit here.
i haven't seen the sun
in as long as i can recall,
and for the few daylight hours
i actually manage to catch sometimes,
long shadows and ocular pain
demand shut blinds, drawn curtains,
averted eyes and heart,
so all that's left is in my head-
a place where once i hoped
to find some happiness but now
lies filled with funerals where
the music never dies.

and where has promise gone
that once ran through these veins
and shone in these eyes,
that now gleam with feculent hatred?
cold, distant distrust-
the mechanical man so many dream of
but none ever wish to be.
look ma, they built the perfect man,
scrapped him together from the best
that anyone could find,
then plugged him in and let him go-
and now they want him dead
because he did his job,
and so he wants to die too,
but he can't for he is music, and
the music never dies.