A song about introspection
Dooa Doob, Boca Smole
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I'm sick of being me
see things through my eyes
I try to hide
but life, is always there
pulling my hair
kicking my shins
my skin is cold and clammy
I try to be fancy
dancing alone
pretending they're candy
damaging home
life and wife
says she's unknown
fights all light
deplete her bone
ability chilling me
forgetting we moan
like Barbara Billingsley's
Beaver has grown
my cleaver has shown
an evil temptation
I bleed for my own
meager menstruation
cleansing my station
I'm draped in grace
bending my pension
I tend to replace
my bills and mistakes
with phony's and fakes
shaking the baby
that waits at my gates
I break, but my pads are worn
Cupid's horn
rings louder every time
it's barely nine
and I want 10
severely fine
I press my pen
sending letters to who knows who
you perhaps
how many laps
do I tap dance on
spitting my crap
slapping the pawns
how many fawns
fawn over my work
how many songs
belong on a shirt
how do the words
touch your emotions
do they sing like the birds
natural lotion
when I bring in the verbs
does it put you in motion
stinging your nerves
serving you potion
do I tie your rope then
set you a drift
do I tickle and moisten
quiver your lips
do you shiver and sip
my flow like liquid
my sliver sticks
so exquisite
I'm blow, I'm gifted
slow or shifted
my timing with rhyming
I'm dwarf among midgets
call me a bigot
my spicket keeps spraying
if you think that I am frigid
you missed what I'm saying
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