The Squirrel Conspiracy

They all thought I was mad
and wouldn't listen when I opened up
with tales of deviant woodland creatures.
They clearly thought I was off on an interplanetary trip
over the rainbow, down the yellow brick road and causing chaos in the emerald city,
sitting on the wizard of oz's lap, asking him to read me a bed-time story.
When I started telling them about the squirrel conspiracy they just chuckled
curiously and passed me another joint.

They refused to believe they were out for world domination
but that's when they strike see.

When your keeled over, laughing yourself into a slow coma, they leap out of kneelevel bushes, scurry down neck-straining trees, sitting, their thirsty eyes glistening in the sunlight
before darting-scurrying across the grass, blurring just below your field of vision
mounting your body like another oak or elm, first one, then two, then three, before rolling all over you as your grasping desperately at these blurry-furry motherfuckers who are ripping you open like there is no tomorrow.

Then your down on the ground pulse tripping-skipping frantic butterfly beats replaced by silence.
They drag you slowly out of sight to do fuck knows what with you while I watch
recoiled, up on my feet, round the roundabout and down the garden path
melting in front of cathode ray spirits and trying to forget what I've just seen
even though I can't, image burnt so hard into my retina of pyschotic tree-dwelling killers
that no amount of the simpsons can soothe the updown panic making the rounds round my nervous system.
Some things you just can't blot out.

They never believe in the squirrel conspiracy
untill it's too late.
Maybe next time they will.

(c) Adam Cheshire... fucknowhen 1999 or something