sing a song, a song of Kings.
For you dine with them
if you are one of them.
Row a boat, and don't wet your coat,
plow the snow, whistling a song for the winter.
For you are not born a winner,
you are not born a loser,
you are born a chooser.
Write a letter, put on your white sweater,
hum as you shower, drum through the hour.
For every time you find humor in a tumor,
humor in a painful or hard situation,
you win.
Bite a bullet, another night with your booklet.
Caress its pages, undress its edges.
For how hard it is for the great,
to tell somebody how to be great.
Clutch at a straw, drown the cool waters down your throat.
Draw the line, gnaw at the thyme with a side of lime.
For your blind obsession with trying to always be right,
is a shepherd ushering you downright to confusion.
Crack your knuckles, and belt your buckle.
Colour your purple,, and paint with maple.
For you might be hated by the broken,
because you're complete, whole and in good condition.
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