Federal St. Heat Master

Federal has a heater in the back of the basement.
He's covered in tinsel and pink insulation.
Thin black skin, and his hair is fine.
His two eyes glow like boxes of wine.

Heater's scared of computers and text messages.
We trade him coffee grounds, picture hangers, and pizza joint menus.
But electric blankets? No.
Broken receivers? Never!
Tattered ikea lamps? Of course not.
3 vacuum cleaners? Never!

Federal has a heater in the back of the basement.
He wears jackets of rugs and similar things.
Spiders and splinters on cracked, silky wings.
Varnish and plaster cover thick, splingy legs.

He's not alone; yes--a rat-sized daughter:
She's made of vitamin bottles and warm, dirty water.
She smells like ball point pens up close and Gap Heaven,
and you can tell she's been crawling on the shelves.

And as legend has it, she keeps the wires running,
the pipes creaky, and the daylight sunny.
You can see her in the fogged-up mirrors,
at the tops of the stairwells,
and when you walk fast past a room.

La la la, la la la laaaa, la la la, la la la laaa