The tiny rocks, the Army socks,
“****, it’s hot,” my shoelace knots,
My fiddling hands, the holes with sand,
My diet’s bland, and cause I can,
I speak a word, but that’s a sin.
I get called out; I just can’t win.
My friend, his card, I give it back,
Go back to fiddling, ”This **** is whack.”
I find more rocks, they’re in my socks.
“****, it’s still hot,” I tug my knots
With my free hand covered in sand.
My ****’s shut up, because I can’t.
