I know the world is a broken Shakespeare poem,
melt your headaches and call 'em home.
Met a gorgeous girl in the parking lot of a post office,
but she is too good and green for my old bones (and boners).
Ya can't help the good fight of life,
but you can try to make better choices than you did when you were a kid.
I can't hold a pistol even when Charlie shows me,
and when I nap I think the world has ended.
my hands hurt because I write too much
and punch things that aren't meant to be punched, like trees and walls.