|
He sits and smiles at his big CV |
|
thinking he's just |
|
a piece of some being |
|
What exactly is he trying to prove? |
|
I wake up beside my bed and I look at the clock |
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and I scratch my head |
|
Where am I supposed to be? |
|
I know what I wish that I could see |
|
He could have been a contender |
|
Once drunk he said to me |
|
A brilliant fiction writer |
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But he had to leave it be |
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I bang into my desk again and I look at the clock, |
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God it's only ten |
|
At least I know I plan on moving on |
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I look at him with his cobweb eyes amusing |
|
himself with a wacky tie |
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What is he supposed to be? |
|
Creation lost in apathy |
|
He could have been a contender |
|
Once drunk he said to me |
|
So why not make it happen? |
|
Even Pupkin had his way |
|
He could have been a contender |
|
Once drunk he said to me |
|
Well there's one shot in the barrel |
|
I'm done with sympathy |
