Why do they need a hundred pop songs
To say the same thing, such a bore,
And why do all my poems
Seem to say so little more?
Why is coffee the only thing I can smell?
No, really, what the hell?
Why does the wind blow?
Why does the grass grow?
Why are questions the answers I best know?
Why is she completely open
In such an airy way?
Why does it have to feel so wrong
To have something more to say?
When the question could offend,
Why must I always ask her?
Why does the weekend leave so fast,
But my foot stay in my mouth forever?
To say the same thing, such a bore,
And why do all my poems
Seem to say so little more?
Why is coffee the only thing I can smell?
No, really, what the hell?
Why does the wind blow?
Why does the grass grow?
Why are questions the answers I best know?
Why is she completely open
In such an airy way?
Why does it have to feel so wrong
To have something more to say?
When the question could offend,
Why must I always ask her?
Why does the weekend leave so fast,
But my foot stay in my mouth forever?
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