Clay

Turning red.

Adopting styles that seem inbred

And made of lead.

Stay on the pace

Recoup the lips.

Avoid this place.

Seek without trace.

It’s a hoot.

Run ahead and blindly shoot.

Hit the marker in dispute.

Marking time

Laying boundaries out to line

A life of crime

Drift away

Never find the urge to play.

We’re made of clay.

It’s a hoot.

Hit the marker in dispute,

Even if that point is moot.

It’s a hoot,

Even if that point is moot.

Run ahead and blindly shoot.

Fazing in,

Wondering when it’s time to begin

Chance is thin

Emptied out

The belted will and in the rout.

We lack the clout

It’s a hoot,

Run head and blindly shoot.

Hit the marker in dispute

Even if that point is moot.

Run ahead and blindly shoot.