Going With It

He knows he's got a lot to learn,

Not be like Dan and get himself a perm,

Or be like Tony Toon,

The poor old Geordie; but looking gaudy.

 

He wants to be the hare,

Run around un scared,

 

Wanting to be the one who dares running around all bare;

like he has nothing to care whilst everyone else just stands around and stares;

having a long hard look at his invisible underwear; nothing else to wear.

 

A Spanish friend comes in with a sombre-ro;

he is no he-ro;

but likes to think that he is Ram-bo.

 

Writing; just writing whatever comes to the head

whether it's real or just inside the roof made up of lead

that is holding strong despite all that is wrong

as he sits there on the bong

trying to make up a song.

 

Then he'll be off to bed.

 

"That Scarborough cat it did go splat,

Underneath the nice yellow looking Cadillac".

 

None of this is meant to make sense,

If it does then it's only pretence,

Pretence not pretense,

There is one difference,

But yet they both make the same bloody sense.

 

Why is rap always angry?

Is it because they're full up on battery?

Don't forget about rainbows; pretty flowers and rap about snowcones;

No, because it hasn't got any bones; sticks and stones,

One day he may be sitting on the throne.

 

But he doubts it; there is nothing to say about it,

Just wants to prove it; if only to himself,

But for now; he'll go back upon the shelf.