Here I now sit in the simmering sun
No closer to water than my sink
My desk is cluttered with useless regard
How can they expect me to think
I’m paid for creating ideas galore
Of which they will sell for dollars
But without a curtain my brain just fries
Disregarded by men with white collars
Sure I get paid to do this and that
The purpose to which I’m never told
I seem to bring happiness to those that pay
Mostly people who are grey and old
Would my kindergarten teacher have guessed
That my life would be here now
She assumed that I was all washed up
Before the moon was jumped by the cow
But here I sit writing such things
That grace the inside of a card
I pen the silly little ditties
That creation of which seems so hard
So the next time you receive a greeting
On a card for practically anything
Just think of me melting like butter
Suffering for the happiness I bring
