What a cliché talk of trash, Sick of the story, Sick of the characters Sick to death of the bromidic lifestyle Of our “protagonist”, Who’s more of a *******.
No ambition, no talent, no heart, No anything really, Blind shots in the dark.
“I’ll stick to it” He says “Everyday!” He declares But everyday becomes every week And every week becomes every month And every month becomes-not every year, But whenever-he-feels-he’s-capable, Able to apply words into a fable Of tongue tangling and mind rotting slur.
He’ll be going out today, Wasting money on fatty foods and Carbonated poison he doesn't need. And in an almost pitiful attempt To feel better about what he failed He’ll say “I’ll try tonight” in a whisper.