sheryl crow and me, sitting in a tree, s-w-e-e-p-i-n-g

I find myself standing next to an empty booth at work, broom in one hand, dust pan in the other. I am staring down at a pile of salt more than likely dispensed by a child or a father being a bastard. Sheryl Crow comes over the speaker and tells me she has been swimming in a sea of anarchy. I smile, knowing that if it were true, I would never have to hear about it on a restaurant sound system. I sweep up the salt and hope that the luck of the person who poured it our will be taking a sharp turn south. I bet sheryl can't even swim.