Lying, leaning, laying on.
Under grass, on you, and to you too,
You lay still, as if the lungs in your chest would burst
if you drew a single breath.
Maybe they might.
Black Feeble Lungs,
I always imagined the bronchioles in your chest
to be tiny hands, reaching for a way out.
Their reach shoved down by cigarettes.
One after another.
Those little hands use to comfort me,
the thought of them being able to be held.
They scare me, now, for they plead for someone to rescue them;
I've tried, I've tried, I've tried.
Black Feeble Lungs, Black Feeble Lungs,
you're staining the grass.