Could I possibly pin these pieces down? They're flyin too fast past our faces.
We're just standing, like virgins, on the sidewalk, facing traffic.
We'll look 'em right in the eyes, those kids who drive too fast.
They're making us lose our letters that we wrote on leaves we collected
last sunny day. We don't know about their ways. They move too quickly for us.
They show parts to eachother and compare and degrade. They are in the market.
They ask us what we've got for sale. "Uhh, nothing," we reply, arms folded
over our bare chests, feeling like we might want to show them.
We don't, though. We just keep watching, covering our eyes when it's just
too much to bear.