Unsingle
Unsingle, disengaged from others
In that house squared off suburban
On the cul de sac circle dead end street
The one with a picket fence unattended by white
As it had never been painted
Sweetie, a witch with a head full of curlers
Frowns, wearing her green mask makeup
To look pretty for her man, her Mr. Right
Just off a road called Twilight Zone Massacre
A bald person who calls himself husband
Has a head full of twisted thoughts as he is lost
Eyes glare out from windows void of light
A creature called wife stirs up a cauldron
Is it soup or poison tonight
She must look pretty for her man
If he is late there is no saying
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