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Dreary and Moreso
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Stuff that could be worse. Gyrating like a heavenly body
It's the mind and not the form
That confuses me so
Depressing as a funeral
Impressing all the kinds of hurt
Stamping and stomping on my forehead
And pulling hairs out one by one
It hurts the whole time
Building to a culmination
A welcome change from drearier times
But in the end, were there ever worse times?
A classier woman there never was
To all but me
They say you're young and that is why
But I see rational thought in you
Indeed, a level-headed person
So why?
