Blue Spilling

There's little point stopping the blue
Spilling from the factories,
And slipping into homes.
Where men beat up wives,
And kids sit on steps
And prices go up,
And you're feeling kept.
When Christmas lights go on
And you want to cry.
(Well, let yourself cry.)
There's little point stopping the blue
Slipping from your guilt
And running through your home.
It's only pain you felt.
You earned it, after all.