I’m tired of words of inspiration,
Telling us to be ourselves so proudly.
Sometimes, it’s a kind of desperation,
A plea for notice by shouting loudly.
Mere men don’t fall for brains, wit and essence,
Unless they come with an attractive ass.
Or they’re both long past concupiscence,
And can laugh about flab and sags and gas.
Men don’t like cripples and women want cash,
At least just enough to split the bills, Kid.
Nothing personal, just daydreams’ clash,
We can’t let people make us flip our lid.
Stay in the moment and live in the Now,
Maybe I’ll find my bull and you’ll get your cow.