You might say he looks calm, but hold your breath.
Beneath the surface; tension, fury, depth
and countless untold battles, each for survival.
Ideas, hopes, urges, and fears; each the rival.
They ebb and flow, like tides repeat.
Crashing in his head in waves of heat.
In case my bad rhymes are starting to bore,
or you can't understand my sweet metaphor.
I am the ocean, if you can at all read,
that my psyches a regular Devonian Sea.
I s'pose my trident's a blunt of good weed.
(alternative ending)
One question resounds, 'what will become of me?'
or you can't understand my sweet metaphor.
I am the ocean, if you can at all read,
that my psyches a regular Devonian Sea.
I s'pose my trident's a blunt of good weed.
(alternative ending)
One question resounds, 'what will become of me?'
I'll die and decompose, most assuredly.
But until then I worry that it's all been for naught.
But until then I worry that it's all been for naught.
Of course, not for too long, there's always good pot.
