I’m a simple man and nothing more, of mediocre means neither rich nor poor.

People misunderstand my quirky ways, I don’t seem to give a flying fig these days.

I’m more than content with the man I’ve become, I march to the beat of my own drum.

I wear my failures like the finest weaves, but not foolish enough to wear my heart on my sleeve.

My imperfections I keep at my feet, so as not to trip I keep up with their beat.

Don’t look to me as shrewd or savvy, I just found in myself a way to be happy.