Not In The Mob

Levels stay low

and I'm forgetting these marks that show

just what kind of cool I am.

Hands in pockets

and yes sometimes my facts are misconstrued,

but somehow my heels are always found pointing toward you.

I don't think I like the way you think

Stale ideas and inefficiency

but you're a knock-out visceral punch

goddamn, I'm seeing stars,

but heaped on steeple-top layers of shining disappointment

this one won't glow so gold.

When I quiet my windmill arms

to raise my hand and call for war,

am I really just waiting for you to call on me?

I wish there was some note I could hit,

some pitch that I could bend

to make you turn your lofty head and look at me full on.