His name's far more complicated
Than he could ever strive to be.
Still fearful of all things R-rated,
The tip of his nose's the furthest he can see.
Half a child, a quarter a mere fool
Who seems to not grasp the lies
He's being fed; serving as others' tool,
His actions are set by the roll of a dice.
And no, he doesn't write tales, no rhyme
Can be found within his hazy mind.
Maybe high on something, he's got all the time
In the world; not having anything to yet find.
YOU ARE READING
A phone book
PoetryA loose continuation of A Few Hysterical Words, this time focused on character descriptions.
