Creep

I hear the Waldorf Astoria harpist pluck Creep. I sing Creep at karaoke. I slam a tambourine to the Creep drum beat, when my friend sings it first. Creep plays at all my favorite bars on the Upper East Side. The dog splayed inside the Married Woman's baby carrier hears Creep leak from her wired earbuds; the dog's sensorium absorbs without understanding.

I listen to Creep on repeat when I feel happy or sad. I replace the Apostle's Creed with the Creep lyrics when I pray the Rosary. The Creep Sutra. If I had been an Aum Shinrikyo cultist in 1995, I would have been listening to Creep on a Sony Walkman while I wrapped sarin gas packets in newspaper, and humming, punctured them with my umbrella end, killing 8 people on the Tokyo subway.