Little boxes made of ticky-tacky, little boxes, little boxes, little boxes, all the same.
There’s a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same.
There were police dogs barking all over my block last night. About half past ten, four cars flared up, sirens going, loud red-blue lights drenching everything with a sheen of epileptic shock. Dogs poured out on leashes, perhaps there was a chase? There was no way to tell from my apartment and I was too firmly In For The Night to consider leaving. Perhaps someone ditched a gun up the street again. A few weeks ago, it was firetrucks. Crackle and roar. Someone had set a pick-up truck on fire around the corner. Broke in a window and doused the thing with gasoline.
And the people in the houses all go to the university,
And they all get put in boxes, little boxes, all the same.
And there’s doctors and there’s lawyers and business executives,
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same.
Monday evening, police wouldn’t let me onto Alex and Chrissy’s block for thirty minutes. Instead I sat on the edge of a curb in the middle of a growing number of thwarted pedestrians. Cruisers lined up were everywhere like a child had been playing god. When they let us through, police were going door to door, uniforms, typical questions, “did you see or hear anything suspicious?” With them came information, kidnapping, a woman walking on fourth fifteen minutes before I came along had been grabbed and pulled screaming into a shabby blue car that drove away at speed.
And they all play on the golf-course, and drink their Martini dry,
And they all have pretty children, and the children go to school.
And the children go to summer camp and then to the university,
And they all get put in boxes and they all come out the same.
The city falling into strange shadows, a forgotten language of violence, was it this bad before? When did the slide begin? Feet are washing up on the shore, only right feet, and in sneakers. We’re up to three so far. This is the headline that catches my eye at the bus-stop. It makes a break from the farm where they’re still digging up missing women, mostly prostitutes. Why can’t we legalize that already? Protect these people, keep them from street-corners, makes it taxable. I was told that our marijuana laws were repealed for the Olympics, replaced with ridiculously high-handed decisions. Six months for a gram of possession. Prison for intent to sell. Even the people who think it’s beautiful here, perfect to raise children, that mountains and ocean should be enough, even they should realize something’s wrong.
And the boys go into business, and marry, and raise a family,
And they all get put in boxes, little boxes, all the same.
There’s a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same.
