Pro-claim my aim to target your lame
Lime-ade
Someone shut him up and give him aids
He plays charades with the fames of being on
‘never mind the buzz cocks’
He’s become stuck up
Tucked in targets and competitions
Repitions picture soldiers and they’re here for war
Pity is in the children’s hands
‘time to understands chores have reasons’
Ground rules have rules and they don’t come carpeted
Padded in cushion
There’s a lime green cushion cover
To cover the stains
There’s the task of proclaiming your lose
You’re close to the win and then fail
Swims right past you in a race
As if fail is a fish and you are only living off its oxygen
Control can be hard
You sometimes find it hard to breathe
As if your batteries are running out
You don’t have the energy to persuade someone you’re so great
You don’t want to be desperate
Who ever it is
Whatever it is
Lime-ade leaks distasteful acid into your system
You ask
‘will I ever overcome some sort of overpowering completion'
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