I'm so sick a me
hit in on
you
Make a fist!
of my heart! POUND
POUND 'til I've bruised it blue, I'm
so
sick a me
hit in on
you
take the shot
Take! the Shot!!
no! you don't even seem to
move. You don't seem to feel no,
impact no pain no
gain
no distortion
catch spark - no flame,
I'm so sick of my poor battered
battering ram
of the skull
to the wall
papered all in vain, not - say,
what am I,
sane?
I'm so sick a me
hit in on
you
Make a fist!
of my heart! POUND
POUND 'til I've bruised it blue, and for you
- not a scratch, not a dent
not a crack! not
a vent, this volcano's blowing over
all the smoke's been spent, but yet
oh, here it goes again. No,
here it comes again. No,
here it comes again and will you even notice
when?
There appears to be some rule
of the universe, here. We are Force Equals
mass times whatever, it's clear
where the object irresistible
hits immovable force - "hey man, do you like,
like me?" Who me? Well,
Sure!
Of course.
What are you trying to SAY?
Speak more plain, please.
(drum solo)
I'm so sick of me hittin on you!
Like a fist
to the heart pound, thump
skip, beaten and through, I'm so sick of me
hitting on you, this is not, really my kinda style of
strict kung fu, and I'm sick of me
hitting on you.
Knock it off!
Cut it out,
man. Even Bruce Lee can't outbox
a rock statue of Muhammad Ali.
Two particularly quite sexy men, by the way, but don't kid
yourself Ali's statue
isn't even going to notice that dead Chinese guy
all...
flailin' at him.
He's just that stoic. Take
a lesson from a poet, or - if you must!
remain in school, and maybe pass a note! Man up,
Grow up, and
pass a fucking note up the row,
or something
Huh?
Cause man? That's childish man. Childish
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