Domesticated Animals

We're off to work where we make just enough
To almost pay for modest comfort here
In this suburban solitude--we fear
We cannot carry on for simple stuff
Like paying bills--we fill our lives with fluff
To starve our souls of all that we hold dear
So we can just maintain. Some turn to beer,
Some turn to self-destruction, think they're tough.

A few of us are simply stubborn, wild
And undomesticated underneath,
And feel there's nothing comforting at all
In comfort--yes, I am a restless child
Who wants to dance and sing among the heath--
I hear the Sirens' song, the Muses' call.