The Art Of Killing A Copy Machine

You could never do this 
Remember who gave this to you 

I was there when you held the notepad 
When you committed it all to memory 
Only to reproduce at a fraction of the heart 

Stop singing my song 
Stop cheapening my words 

You haven't raised a naive foot from your cage 
Your lack of everything speaks volume in no words 
And now you point every finger at me 
That I haven't done my job 
Your working overtime with no results 
So now I am pointing the fingers