| Hobbled by the fact
|
| That there must be a problem
|
| Confident that there’s a trace
|
| Of honor that we share
|
| So let’s begin again
|
| And let’s not try to answer
|
| With subtle irony
|
| Instead of common sense
|
| Take me to your room
|
| And lay me on the bed
|
| Looking at the stamps
|
| That slowly you’ve collected
|
| The impression that was made
|
| As you frequently do fly
|
| Dripping on the dock
|
| You shiver from the cold
|
| You’re looking pretty good
|
| And I’m feeling pretty old
|
| Is sudden mastery
|
| Of most of the decisions
|
| Convinced of steady growth
|
| In the hours that will come
|
| To take the best of me
|
| And throw it to the dogs
|
| You can call me bastard
|
| And you can call me friend
|
| But don’t forget to call me
|
| Before the story ends
|
| Covered in a fabric
|
| That’s made from good intent
|
| Poking through a hole
|
| That been eaten by a moth
|
| Let’s pretend I’m guilty
|
| Of everything you’ve mentioned
|
| Reproductively unsound
|
| Reproductively inclined
|
| But can I change the system
|
| Of how I have been measured
|
| It’s really unattractive
|
| How little I really know
|
| So shoot me through a cannon
|
| Squash me like a bug
|
| Or sweep me like some dirt
|
| That lies under a rug
|
| Let’s start up a petition
|
| To get me out of town
|
| Each time I bring you up
|
| It seem to bring you down |