Voices echo in a huge ugly room that needs repainted.

Can't use the only restroom, smelled it once and nearly fainted.

Mothers bring their kids so they have a place to scream and cry,

but I can't care what they do.

Everything will soon be dry in the quarter fed clothes dryer.

A longer hour can't be found watchin a round window where my socks spin round and round.

I'm hypnotized by the constant sound.

The change machine I hope this week is full.

I come every Sunday to make a bright day dull.

A redundant cycle of depression, void and null.

Always there's different people creating the same old smell.

Never got to church, so I guess I went to hell.

Watchin a round window as my socks spin round and round.

Tryin to push a smile through a very stubborn frown.

I'm just another soap sud zombie alone in this town.

And the clothes I'm wearing smell like this place.

As usual, I must guard my folding table space.

Here I go again, and already next week is due to begin.

Same time next Sunday, same smell, same sound.

And I'll watch a round window as my socks will spin round and round.

This is where the soap sud zombie can be found.

I've come to realize that some men need a good wife to share their life with.

Including these Sundays, a lonely part if life.

Two soap sud zombies, maybe, could even smile through this strife.