I don't think about what I can't see,
it don't count if it ain't staring at me.
Little choices I cannot recall,
get it quick or not at all.
Every bargain has a hidden cost:
What was saved? What was lost?
Forty color-ways and free returns:
Where's it made? What'd they earn?
Is it enough to add to cart
with buyer's remorse?
Well if you don't know where to start,
consider the source.
What becomes of what I throw away?
Broken cord, takeout tray,
leaky battery and shattered screen,
spilling ink I can't clean.
Is it too much to be undone,
too late to change course?
Before condemning anyone,
consider the source.
I set the table for an easy meal,
I don't mind what I can't feel:
Tired turkey in a crowded cage,
he can't peck, he can't rage.
Little choices and the way they spread,
Who must starve so we'd be fed?
I don't think about what I can't see,
but now that bird won't stop staring at me.
I tap my heart before I dine,
but quickly divorce
from all your agony down the line,
and all I endorse.
Is it enough to add to cart
with buyer's remorse?
Well if you don't know where to start,
consider the source.