I'm sick
I've got that god complex;
got it bad.
Trying to form people in mine own image.
Just beggin for a blank slate.
Begging for a lump of fresh, fleshy clay
To let my hands and egos have their way,
At sixes and sevens with my rearing.
But the hazard is in the hearing,
Its always in the hearing.
Every word muddled more than the last
SO why tie a man to the mast?
Every one mad before they caught a note
Because they're living by the rote