You’ll have to sing ‘em for yourself if you wanna
hear my banjo ring.
hear my banjo ring.
Too much of a (good?) thing?
I’m sure’s hell not going to sing ‘em for you.
My poems are meant for someone else to sing.
I’m sure’s hell not going to sing ‘em for you.
My poems are meant for someone else to sing.
Messages of joy we mutually bring—
you roll in the snow, I lie in the sauna,
until the timer rings.
you roll in the snow, I lie in the sauna,
until the timer rings.
Not aching to know who’ll be the king,
but it sure’s hell won’t be me—I hate the drama.
My poems are meant for someone else to sing.
but it sure’s hell won’t be me—I hate the drama.
My poems are meant for someone else to sing.
But a poem sure can shoot a
nasty sting,
like the posterior of a bumble-hummer,
to make your mugged nerves ring.
like the posterior of a bumble-hummer,
to make your mugged nerves ring.
Next thing you know, you’re all
red and swollen,
skin too sensitive to wear pajamas.
My poems are meant for the birds and bees to sing,
plus Cupid’s thumbed drone string.
skin too sensitive to wear pajamas.
My poems are meant for the birds and bees to sing,
plus Cupid’s thumbed drone string.
