He's sitting here eating a potato,
Leftovers from last night.
He thinks that it tastes o.k. though,
It's cold and he needs some more light.
He's sitting there doing his homework,
Stuff from two weeks ago.
Blood on the carpet, a fight after work,
He's felling pritty ok though.
When the cops came to visit his house late one day,
He said that the blood's from a cut.
He was sitting around play games in the hay,
When a needle punctured his butt.
He said the wound has healed all ready,
It healed a week ago,
He balanced and made his body steady,
But he said he has no balance though.
The cop had left him there was no place to hide,
So he fled for the town right then.
He spread his wings and begun to glide,
He looked like a crazy old hen.
You se that this is a leftover story,
no one would by my book.
We wish that we could live in fame and glory,
Oh well time to real in your hook.
On the end of your hook a body there hung,
Some leftovers from a crime,
I have a new book the title there hung,
on his forehead the title "a rhyme."
On living we go from age to age,
Stories come from every odd end.
A death a life some one stuck in a cage,
The end of a life wich we've lend.