cans of whoop ass

Its like having a thought
but no paper to write it on
Found the paper but now
Now having an old pen
And no ink to write it with
Like having the words
With no one to say them to
Having to much red to make purple
And running out of blue.

The blues come quickly just like anger.
The stay and they're sticky like an unwanted stranger.
Hanging from the bill of you hat
Coating the lens of your glasses
On a Welcome Home mat
And pulled but a high plane as it passes.