A lady told me that her son was going through something in school. It was made apparent that her son was “sweet” on a young girl in his class. And she was “sweet” on him, too!
Well, other young boys, in the class, knew that her son was fond of the young girl as well. Their mission: to turn the young girl against the boy with good grades. “He ain’t all that!,” was what had flowed in the class. The young boy wanted to fit in.
He comes home one day and exclaimed, “I don’t like her anymore!” It didn’t seem like she spent too much time in getting him to explain the sudden change. But yet, she knew of the boys intention to pretty much disown him because of his prestine reputation in the class. She shrugged it off.
So then, I said, “That’s intimidation.” No, it’s not!,” she said. Intimidation is when somebody has an ultimatum to fulfill. He didn’t feel as though he had to do anything.”
I said, “You’re wrong. So wrong. And I don’t even have kids.”
I hear voices
But no one’s home
All these choices
Yet still, I’m all alone
Am I bothering You?
I can still see
Why You can’t tell the truth
Do You want me to go
Or let You shout it out?
Feeling so low
Why should I do without?
Can’t You touch me
Like You used to?
Still Your Baby
Looking to be Your shoe
Will You ever whisper
Sweet things like You used to?
Whisper Baby, Whisper
In this room built for two
I know You don’t know it
But, I was leaving anyway
Couldn’t make it fit
So I convinced myself to stay
Now, I see You got something on Your mind
No need to fight with yourself
You’re about to run out of precious time
‘Cause I’m about to start seeing somebody else
She changed everything
About her self
For a man that was
Once Bohemian that
Who could believe her newfound bliss
(Underneath) And her Sunday morning hat
What a life she has made
That is not her own
Now always seeking shade
Away from the heart and soul she grown
But Sunday morning
Only comes once a week
Six other days worth of scorning
From a carefully twisted tongue that won’t let her speak
Look at her Sunday morning blues
If she wanted to cabaret
All day, twirl and play
Finding the will to say
Is too much, so she chooses to pray for a better day and stay
She wears her Sunday morning hat
So the sky doesn’t see her look up
Unable to clean her feet on her own welcome mat
Horoscope reads like an upside down fortune cup
Everyday, she says hello to her Sunday morning blues
Looking for clues
Hiding from the Who Whos
Before they recognize a new bruise
Such a pretty Sunday morning blue hat