Levels stay low
and I'm forgetting these marks that show
just what kind of cool I am.
Hands in pockets
and yes sometimes my facts are misconstrued,
but somehow my heels are always found pointing toward you.
I don't think I like the way you think
Stale ideas and inefficiency
but you're a knock-out visceral punch
goddamn, I'm seeing stars,
but heaped on steeple-top layers of shining disappointment
this one won't glow so gold.
When I quiet my windmill arms
to raise my hand and call for war,
am I really just waiting for you to call on me?
I wish there was some note I could hit,
some pitch that I could bend
to make you turn your lofty head and look at me full on.
