Others are blasting off into the sky
In things that your grandpa thought never would fly
Others are carving their footprints deep into
The crust of the Earth
And then into space
While others burn their face
Into your brain
It's all the same
Others are steaming out patterns
Left behind in invisible ink
Picturing plans and elevations
And equations
Others are sculpting toys
From the rarified air
And electrons and light
They feel just right
In your hand
You don't understand
How others, god damn them, they got to make
And your unfortunate fate is to bake
In a desiccated riverbed, minus a claim to stake
Or stacking up cartons in a Supermarkt
Or typing up nonsense long after dark
Alone in a suburban office park
With rules made by others
Who give cuts to their brothers
While your spirit smothers
