Beneath the skin, like molten magma
Making a mountain out of mere words
That are but devices that dare not be
Taken much too literally
But sometimes waves become a storm.
You and I are just two officious kids
Who’ve read too much yet learned too little
To know that the matter of which we speak
Is a subject to think of and not bury
In brazen discourse of big, big words
Yet now we’re in this position
My fist on your February frozen lips
And a smile as I feel satisfied
And then you kick me right in the balls
And no more words as we tumble by
No comments:
Post a Comment