It shouldn’t take this long for the flowers to deliver
You’re my, you’re, you’re my end
Please, cat stick, don’t pretend
You are not a quitter, nor a sitter
You pounce on existence and constrict ways-a -better
You told me the dirty rudders would unclutter
But this heh’ boat, yeah, she rolls on mystic water
And she flies to the land of wheels in concrete stature
Here, the engine is healed and instilled with turmOIL
But this is not all
It is a given a pedal that makes sure to go on
To recline, and to define the compass’s state of mind
Most certainly, navigation is undermined in due time
However, the roads, as well as airs, are cleared
