I Don't Consider Myself To Be A

And You Read Your Emily Dickinson, And I My Robert Frost. And We Note Our Place With Bookmarkers That Measure What Weve Lost.

I Am Just A Poor Boy, Though My Story's Seldom Told, And I Have Squandered My Resistance, For A Pocket Full Of Mumbles, Such Are Promises. All Lies In Jest, Still A Man Hears What He Wants To Hear And Disregards The Rest...la-la-la-la-la-la-la-lala-la-la-la-la...

The Words Of The Prophets Are Written On The Subway Walls And Tenements Halls And Whispered In The Sounds Of Silence.

I Stepped Outside To Smoke A J And When I Came Back To The Room, Everybody Just Seemed To Move.

My Life So Common It Disappears And Sometimes Even Music Cannot Substitute For Tears.