Expired and past your best-by date,
House attired, you no longer relate,
So you sit way in the back of the Frigidaire,
No one to question your behavior there.
Socially distant from the milk and cheese?
Sort of depends on the bend of your knees,
Atop forgotten leftovers, all Tupperware clad;
That carton of milk's already gone bad.
You see yourself - eye to eye -
With an 800-number and you start to cry,
Your friends think you're missing, it turns to a weep,
Cause you smell just as bad as the company you keep.
Ohhh, that baking soda, should've been changed
Long before normal became so estranged,
And this echoed solitude entombed inspiration
That gave way to ideas of such rash hibernation.
That's not some comic strip bulb
That burns over your head, and offers solutions
to your quarantine dread,
The humdrum return of your everyday bore.
You see, that light goes out when you pull closed
You can't save the world - you'll save only yourself,
If you sit in the dark, alone on that shelf.