Pilgrims, we are.

A brave and weary customer,

Carrying his backpack home,

Full of presents for the kids,

And bourbon for the wife.

The pavement moves his shoes,

His hair trickles up to the rain,

As his eyes reach the darkness,

Of the city life’s outer stain.

The house is a shrill blue box,
Meat and fire fester inside,
From their smiling embraces,
There's nowhere to hide.