Maybe it’s because I’ve seen the soul of men leave a thousand times before,
That I can’t stand my son not wanting to watch mine any more.
Maybe he finds it laborious, a bore,
To make him a spectator of stubbornness, fisticuffs, with arrogance, an expected chore.
Wait around son, watch my wretched, have a stare at the gore,
My self harm, disarmed, disfigured, unhinged, ego still rampant, even with only one foot on the floor.
I carry that mother-fucker around like old stories of war,
High horsed, puff-chested, nose in the air, I know your heart is heavy, eyes are sore.
But don’t go yet, hang around, let me settle the score,
I’ve one more round in me, ego still standing, it’s ready for an encore.
Okay, Okay, wait please, don’t ignore,
Please let me be, if only a little, don’t close the door.