If I lean my ear on the table
I hear the scribbles
And whispers of class
My eyes follow the horizon;
I see the soft wood dimple
With words from kids
With empty on their minds
And Tim Burton films in their inhalers
I write poetry, I guess
If I lean my ear on the table
I hear the scribbles
And whispers of class
My eyes follow the horizon;
I see the soft wood dimple
With words from kids
With empty on their minds
And Tim Burton films in their inhalers