It's been heard I'm adequate with words If only they knew, they knew less than the full story
It's been said I'm blithe, articulate I'm pleasant at that That I have and want not's compensatory transitory
In the end, I'm worth forlorn words, no more In the end, my has-been charm goes dead weight In the end, I'm your additive to the dull days In the end, my gains come from a snake's tongue
In the end, I'm nothing but words for reading
black lies on the white light of a flat screen
In the end, I've nothing but words beneath me beneath me
Beneath me twists and turns the caverns where my heart grows. I call it art to your face, when I'm a broker by trade. You won't know that you trade, you won't see that I sell myself. You won't feel the hidden strings on your cervical spine until you've given your food, four walls, window and door, given your love to a dead duck scanning for escape.
at certain things, i excel but in doing them i hurt myself