This is just to prove

This is just to prove that I'm no buffoon;
I can hear the meter, follow the rhyme
Give birth to a bastard of different wool
Which would not be a part of my bloodline.


Some neat thing with tied shoes and an IQ
That's well tempered, patient, tapered, pretty
Like a spear that's been made into a cue
From death and warfare to something petty, like pool. 

Counting syllables and fretting the stress
Offers no escape to a sleepless mind
The blunt knife requires more thrust than the chef's
And to be frank, who's got the goddamn time?

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