I'm sorting my life out
yeah, I'm writing poetry
despite the lack of bad times.
Busting rhymes. Without the lyrics.
'Cause I am my own critic
and I'll tell you now,
I'm a cynic. Because if it don't serve me
Then you can bet your ass I'll bin it.
Unless it serves you, then I'll spin it
into the clinic where I'll make you smile
like a mystic, because that's my lyric
that I'm sorting my life out with;
the slick slapstick of promiscuous hospitality
without the stick and the toxic obsession with
biology, I told you I'll bin it - this criminology
needs to be taken to the clinic,
because like a mystic I'm here to make you smile
and all the while I'm sorting my life out
yeah, I'm writing poetry.
