The overnight machine.
It’s in business from 9pm to 6am:
its location is a matter of a guess;
its meanings are many, and its answers, few;
it seeks to yearn, to swear and to process.
Its workings are nasty, its adherents, shrewd;
its slaves splendid in their desolate devotion;
its nurses are evil, its gas stations, lewd;
its followers included me and you.
So when the overnight machine kicks into gear,
you know, you’ve got it made:
its curses are empty, but its teachings, they’re true;
the likelihood of failure is ten, to the power of two.
But you know you’ve got it made;
you know you’ve earned a coveted spot,
when the overnight machine takes and spills itself;
shakes and hurts itself;
fakes and burns itself:
over and over and over