Down in the cellar there's a household god.
He is drinking up the planet.
He has little eyes in his belly,
Which are his thoughts,
Evidence that he may be thinking.
One, then another.
Sometimes two at a time.
He's sometimes humming a little.
Maybe the music of his little
Lights is the way, sometimes,
Someone who eats alone,
No wife, no boyfriend, no girlfriend,
Hums to himself.
Or talks to himself alone.