It's getting on,
It's late into the evening
As I wander through these halls alone
I wonder what I'm missing
I picked up a broom earlier today
To sweep up all that's broken
I found myself sweeping up myself
With the broom that I was holding
I can't get past all these shadowed rooms
That lie quiet in the dark
Some say they're harmless, they cannot bite
But they've seem to have made their mark
I'm slipping on Fridays, sliding on Saturdays
And Sundays I try to find my feet
Falling hurts more when you jump in
And never seem to find the bottom.
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