The brain turns to mush
Like congealed alphabet soup
She reached for an R or G
But only grasped a dot for an I, and a cross for a T
Muddling through the orange sea
While dying inside, yearning for green
Unpopular at best, but it doesn't seem to matter
For in the end, it's up to some other man
A soft and tender yet grating voice
Erupts from between two thinly parted lips
As if they were holding back a torrential storm
That's taken cover in the cheek
Words threaten to jump out
At the first opportunity
But careful tactics
Bestow the speaker with prestige
A falsehood, perhaps
Or a neater picture of reality
It's really all the same
You are what you eat
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