I’m sick of boxes, boxes, boxes everywhere. Comin’ back in military planes, in the darkness,
I pick flowers, right out of other people’s gardens.
I look at their beauty for a while,
then take them home.
I put them in a box under my bed.
There are hundreds of them in a box that once contained a pair of Converse All Stars.
Hundreds of them, all in one box.
Hundreds of them.