I was lying on the grass on Sunday morning of last week

Indulging in my self-defeat

My mind was thugged all laced and bugged all twisted wrong and beat

Uncomfortable in three feet deep

Now the fuzzy stare from not being there on a confusing morning week

Impaired my tribal lunar-speak

And of course you can't become if you only say what you would have done

I was frying on the bench slide in the park across the street

L-a-t-e-r that week

My sticky paws were in to making straws out of big fat slurpy treats

An incredible eight foot heap

Now the funny glare to pay a gleaming tare in a staring under heat

Involved an under usual feat

And I'm not only among but I invite who I want to come

I know its done for me

Not something hard to see

Keeping dumb and built to beat