Under a steel sky, snow falling
Likely in April, as the garlic
Struggles to push through soil
Left on top of it months ago,

We forget what we used to know.
People used to get sick. They
Used to get close to death.
And the beer on the table

Promises me a buzz, comfort
And all the things I want.
But what about the things
That I know I don't want?

Infection breeds necessity.