Only uncertain about one thing and one thing only, what this mightily enthusiastic endeavour of ours can bring
Up all night ’til the stroke of dawn, yawn after yawn after God awful yawn
Are we simply mere pawns along the way, or can what we write really get to have its unequivocal say
One day perhaps
No such lapse necessary, simple enough expressions courtesy of the pen
Only time will tell it seems
We reap what we sow, so really we ought to begin to own what we spell
Sell, sell, sell can only help, make that flamboyant hairdresser delve a little deeper owing to the story that we wrote for her, the personalised poem that will forever hang over her all too welcoming door
An uncreative solicitor shrug their ignorant shoulder. finally deciding to pay
Turn the unenthusiastic ones on and we’ll never go too far wrong
All along narrowing the road to the very top, stop all of those goddamn clocks

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