You count the buttons
On his shirt and the eyes
In his closet, as he has a suit of many colors
Like a bird with a ton of rumination
A man and no imagination can never be rich
A man with courage has a soul that can never be poor
He just gives himself to social shambles and eccentric people
Redolent about his hysterical naked self
I seem to forget that childhood was filled with punishment
That turned into a crime, and my soul healed by being with POW
Or the children of war and the creed of a generation
Seemed to hear the elevator muzak, and left me linked to the radio
Tombstones couldn't scream, and the sheer shrieks of podiums resounded
Children were starving with hunger whereas they should have been assigned shrinks
In his closet, there were many skeletons
All them starved to death, and funnily they wore gregarious looks and suits
Constituents of an open book of spells
Changed its text with each levee flooding the Hell gates
Of lawmakers, the conviction of suicidal souls
Someone killed himself again and saved by the tolling hell bell
Heck, I could write better than this, and **** the freewill
Heck, I could call the man on this and ask for the rights of women and children
Heck, I couldn't provide for my own children and heal the heavenly souls facing the hellish war

In his closet, their qued a ****** questioning his own wit