You used gravy.
Bruised...
Babies...
Truths.
Maybe.
If I have to prove that I’m in their eyes crazy
and unfit to ‘work’ when I’m not lazy
so they can come get the perks of a dirty daisy
then I’ll smile while I question the file that says I’m hazy
and ask myself if their feast is at least as crazy,
and lazy, and hazy.
I play my cards, they should raise me.
All these days you amaze me.
All I want is a day’s cheese
at a time
while I wiggle and rhyme.
I did a little for a dime
so my nickel should shine.
Why won’t I put my pickle in the brine?
Why won’t I just play a fiddle in good time?
I’m in the middle of a climb.
Don’t want to fall this time.
Don’t want to call it a crime.
And you shouldn’t either.
As if I’m the one who’s too eager
to play…
and make all the money and throw it away.
You know what I say?
I aint voting for who they say they are.
I get paid by a card for being their retard
who thought they’d listen.
Something beyond this pays for this thanksgiving.
I’m on a plank, living.
What am I missing?
Enough money to afford my own pot that I piss in?
Just whistling dixie while my dick keeps on dribbling.
Basketball scribbling.
Ask them all if I put a little in.
I will fight but it will win.
$hit, million$.