just as it comes

A rut's not a hole, it's a hill,

Like how memories don't go when they're folding the will,

Growing old means learning that food ain't stolen for the thrill,

What they ain't sold always on the bill,

It's the same old chorus by the verse,

And always seem to hurt when their teeth so white and smiling so wide and they're saying so much but meaning so little,

And the people so fickle, and their so feet are so brittle,

And the ice so thin,

Why so glib, you're a prick in every sense of the word,

I make sentences heard,

By making sense of the hurt,

Went to work, biked home and cried,