A hospital looms over my house
Bauhaus and black against the red sky
I sleep through the sirens and machines that give voice
To the heartrates of kids who OD every weekend
But I'm not one of them and still I'm in this bed
With needles in my arms and wires on my chest
Waiting for an X-Ray, staring at the flowers they all bring
Or watching the TV on the ceiling
I can remember the view from the top floor
Staring out over an urban sprawl
Where they disconnected her tired body from the machines
But I'm not yet a mother and still I'm in this bed
With tubes stuffed up my nose and wires on my chest
I can hear their voices read to me aloud,
"You must change your life," but how was I supposed to change this?
There is a hospital inside me
It's full of medicine and babies
I'm connected to a million beeping machines
And I'll make a slow recovery
You take the lead, I'm in the black now
I'll finally get away