I’m a creator, the maker, the happenin’ kind. The sure-footed rock hound, clearly bound, by nothing. Ain’t that something? I take two steps to your three, then calmly—scratch that, tranquilly—bow out for beauty sleep. Not a peep.
Let’s not play, pretend you’re not a puppet on my string. If you need a hug, that’ll be extra, doll. Wink, wink. Back away, this extra-large blanket is built for one. Take a pill, and I’ll fill you in due time. You go low, and I go lower still.
I know who you are in the underneath part. And it’s uglier than the ugliest rot. Take that to the auction, and sunshine, every time, remember me when you return what you bought.
Going On 40 