It doesn't blind in the darkness.
It doesn't eat away on things.
It doesn't sound like a devil
Who is just secretely kackling.
It doesn't hurt your fingertips.
It isn't too hot for a life.
It doesn't send black smoke around.
It doesn't suffocate your lungs,
Or cover your nose with charcoal.
It doesn't make your hair frizzy.
It doesn't turn your two eyeballs
Into one hot, running egg white.
It doesn't feed on your dry clothes,
Sticking to them and growing big,
Until you cannot put it out.
Screaming helplessly to neighbors.
And when neighbors hear about you,
They grab their kids, their pets, their things.
And run on a great big stampede,
Racing in terror, moving out,
Moving to the streets, staying out,
Sleeping under the evening stars,
Heads beside the roads, all night long.
It doesn't force you to stay out
Of your own house for fear of death.
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