A friend of mine has claimed I've
written rhymes for everything,
But I swear to you, he's full of
it–okay, exaggerating.
I don't write about my childhood–how
babysitters dressed me,
Or the cops who came to Pizza Hut to
wrongfully arrest me.
I don't write of architecture or
interior design.
I don't write about my glasses, mopping
floors or drinking wine.
I never even wrote word one about the
number two,
and like I promised to myself, I write
no more of you.
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