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Description
You know when a poet sits in front of his monitor
A hand to his forehead, having two msn chat windows
Open on the task bar
He is trying to force the poem out of him
He will be looking for inspiration at the things around him first
Zune headphones, rough black cloth would around a plastic wire
And would be pure black if not for the white twirl
Like the twists upon a candy cane
It matters not what flavor
The sound of the all-in-one printer photocopying
Robotic, but not like metal, more like the sound
Of those hand dryers which, you know are eco-friendly
But you'd still much rather have paper-towels
He turns then to the writers he envies
Tom Lehrer you sicko, your satirical lyrics would be disgusting
If not for their hilarity
Shown in such clarity
I'm a wannabe
Lobotomy
Brain surgery!
Perhaps this poet is just trying to run away from his heart
The things that he could easily write pages and pages about
Because its his heart that brings him the most
Joy and
Pain
And that poet looks at what he's written and easily remembers
Poetry is not so, lest dubbed so by one that writes not so
So lest someone call me a poet
I'll not be so
And perhaps I'll run from my heart forever

Description
You know when a poet sits in front of his monitor
A hand to his forehead, having two msn chat windows
Open on the task bar
He is trying to force the poem out of him
He will be looking for inspiration at the things around him first
Zune headphones, rough black cloth would around a plastic wire
And would be pure black if not for the white twirl
Like the twists upon a candy cane
It matters not what flavor
The sound of the all-in-one printer photocopying
Robotic, but not like metal, more like the sound
Of those hand dryers which, you know are eco-friendly
But you'd still much rather have paper-towels
He turns then to the writers he envies
Tom Lehrer you sicko, your satirical lyrics would be disgusting
If not for their hilarity
Shown in such clarity
I'm a wannabe
Lobotomy
Brain surgery!
Perhaps this poet is just trying to run away from his heart
The things that he could easily write pages and pages about
Because its his heart that brings him the most
Joy and
Pain
And that poet looks at what he's written and easily remembers
Poetry is not so, lest dubbed so by one that writes not so
So lest someone call me a poet
I'll not be so
And perhaps I'll run from my heart forever