We're damaged objects
brought together
by glue that hardly ever keeps us fixed
Mismatched tools
That useless are forever
to owner who cares not, and has us mixed

When we're in his room
huddled on the floor
Covered by the dust and the litter
And the door goes boom
when he lost control
We would stay in shop and glitter

We're damaged objects
Praying for cleaning
That will get rid of dirt that overwhelms us
We strive for soap,
the long forgotten meaning,
of which the oldest table sometimes tells us

When we feel the touch
Of his sticky hands
There is no pretense:
We're crying
We still wonder much,
is it dirt he needs?
It's not that soap leads
to dying!