SQUIRREL SONG Lyrics

This is a sad fuckin' song 
We'll be lucky if I don't bust out crying 
  
How does it feel? 
Your night light, your curling iron 
Lit up by the sweat of others, 
For many's the day 
But not from November to May 
  
The floor is littered 
With woodchips and apple cores 
And hulls (holes?) of acorns 
There is a chattering sound 
  
Because they were squirrels; real squirrels. 
(And there were thousands) 
This isn't some kind of metaphor, 
Goddamn, this is real  *David Woodhhead*