There is four feet of dirt set over my cranium,
Yet I inhale with ease,
Hiding away in a cocoon of earth.
Where Arctic cold or Arabian heat refuses to penetrate,
Yet there is no furnace or air-conditioning,
Only a 56 degree thermal mass.
Cool in the summer,
Warm in the winter,
Always constant.
Storms raging, winds howling, blizzards blanketing the earth,
Yet I exist comfortably,
Carefree of the outside turmoil.
Snuggled away in quiet tranquility,
I flick on the fluorescent bulb,
Take out a good volume,










Deposit an extra piece of wood on the fire,
And merrily wait for the energy bill to arrive.
I am chillin underground.