One of these days, oh, will be the last
The last time that I ever write
One of these days will be my last, and I want to put up a fight
My creativity dithers, as imploded logic echoes, following
The right side of my mind all warped and buckled, and inverted on the left.
The mind, it is a fickle thing, and elfing doesn\'t help.
I want to write stories that Howard Philips would blush at, he\'d wash away his tears in my stories kelp.
My fruntle loab all caved in, my rhymes inspired by AI chime, and all I want to do is, weep away my tired sleep.
I wanted to use Poe & Shakespeare as shades of paint, and paint a tale with shades of Kefka an uh Benjerman, and not awful I\'m sure that it of smelt.
I want to write a tale of alt write guises, and fuse it with Runic, kabbalah. Ohoooooooh.
Oh, I don\'t want to write this, this piece of self-exposed drear. I don\'t want to write this, this trash and meta line you just read most mere.
And I, and I don\'t know how to end this tune. This is, this is supposed to be a song oh yes. And I, don\'t know what to do with myself anymore, as what will you do, and why would you do, when in simple: you
don\'t remember it.