The desert people reach out of their trenches to eat the bugs on the ground,
Crawling at their eye level.
And I hear they say each other’s names backwards
When they greet each other.
They don’t have a religion.
They live only to starve.
I think I’ve seen one or two of them,
Over here or over there.
They never acknowledge you,
And they never stare.
I swear to god though,
I once saw one eating the other’s hair.
I don' know what they’re doing there,
And they sure don’t care what I’m doing here.
Someone ought to find them and set ‘em straight,
I tell you.
I’d fix ‘em up with nice clothes,
And good jobs,
If I were you.
What are they doing there?
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