What if boot camp was what it was all about
the pendulum swings and
college slides
down the bunk bed post,
debunked of passion,
penny loafers, worn, on ice rolling
credits shower mortarboards
the newly commissioned officers
grow beards in battle
and salute the retail mercenaries
and baristas in berets
When I stacked Bugles on fingertips
When I stacked Bugles on fingertips,
bounding on beds throwing fits,
birthdays were for me with presents not weapons
against demons, how fulfilling was fun? back then
when I played to play–for I must–
’till time was told by dusk,
when chimney smoke and riding bikes were fall,
no note of the girls dressed half as tall,
before I knew what all my parts where suppose to do
and realized I could easily live in a rue,
before wrist watches rubbed my thigh
and never took the first reply to my “Why?”
Passing the same wooden fence
Don’t know the road
I’m on highway 20.
Another thumb appears
could I spare a seat
for I’m lost looking for a sign?
Plenty, yes, problem’s finding mine,
beginning to doubt my confidence
passing the same wooden fence
passed a few moments passed.
Wouldn’t change a thing
if I was sad or a tad smiling,
I wouldn’t change a thing for
I’m happy if you don’t want me,
to be the one wanting you
every moment till the day I die.
He’s got something for me,
and I’m not sure it’s someone–
don’t care to know,
because I wouldn’t change a thing
every moment till the day I die.