WE are eccentric, eccentric you and I,
Not in outward actions, but of our thoughts inside.
We dwell across the spectrum from devil to divine
We think ourselves the gods, and we ourselves the mime.
The mockingbird will mimic, the sweetest psalmists song,
The hypocrite will tell us that all he does is wrong.
And we’ll crash the cymbals, and we’ll resound the gong
And we’ll never live this live as deep as it is long.
WE are dullards, dullards, you and I
Forget we need to need and only deserve to die.
I can’t convince you more, though I’m sure I will try,
Because in my own words, it’s the blind leading the blind.
Blacksheep, Blacksheep, do you know where you belong?
Like a note without a scale; Like a color never drawn.
If the existentials’ shouted would we all sing along?
Well this is my rebellion; I think I’ll do things right.
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