In the view of a spectator’s eye I may seem a spoiled brat Examining the reasons why I lie And the selfish way I act
Perhaps the stereotypes are always right And I fit the nature of the youngest child If so then I am a hatchling of spite And suitable without a smile - With the hearing of an eavesdropper’s ear I may only have a wicked tongue Hearing my voice it seems senselessly clear That my mouth doesn’t suit me this young
Perhaps the language I speak is too mature For a child in a man’s clothing But if I try not to speak with lips so poor Then my phoniness will be disclosing - In the scripture of a psychiatrist’s notes I may seem too exposed to disappoint And then lodged in my postponing throat Is the dreaded date for my next appointment
Perhaps it’s the people who wear the crowns Are the ones who spill excuses But it seems the people that always let me down Always seem to be my strongest muses
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