By Jan M. Smith
What a wonderful relief I have found
To be able to meet some nutty clowns
Who seem to be lost in a haze of chiffon
With anvils and hangmen's nooses on their arms.
Say what, about who, and you did what, I am lost
No surely not, I mean, say that again, what? you are gone?
There is a game, did I not pick the top hat as my man
Oh I see you always must have the upper hand
Well, my dears do not you think that you can slam that door in my face
And you knock on it and I slam it on my foot in my haste
And while I am hopping around in pain, sad and blue
Then you can take a look inside my clean innocent room
There was no agenda here, no heart of coal, nothing being sought
You have nothing I want or care for and much from which I would bolt
Because you see, my dears, you do not know me, that was your mistake
You somehow must understand I pick and choose my own fate
No one owns me and no one owns my name,
No one tells me what to do nor who to claim
But if anyone hurts me, or my friend just the same
They are banished to forever land and I stand unashamed
If you stand still long enough ones true colors are usually shown
They are the ones who cause pain, lash out and make themselves known
They tilt their chins and fa fa from their mouths with wide red smiles
And they just may lose the best people from whom they could have shared some miles.
They live in an endless circle trying to catch a ride on a star
They fluff up their hair, looking for a name, a limousine car
So get at it, go on, leave the real folks alone.
We have stuff to do, not dodging your dry bones.