Ink On My Feet

from by Jon Watts

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lyrics

Every
rhyme i
write
starts
with
you. you are him
and she her
he is
true.
but
how
do
you
do?

while
you’re
around
the
corner


waiting



to

surprise
us


with

“are “could
you and you use
alright?” another
iced
cappucino,
sir?”

Your wife’s
at
home
with your ancestor.
They’re
slimy little
bastards,
you know the kind.
But we’re looking for people

who have trouble with
rhymes.
They just can’t find the right word to
rhyme.
I wanted
to speak
my mind,
but I was
handcuffed
to the bed
with a gun
pointed at my head,
so I sang them instead.

It went like this:
“well i wanted
to know you
so badly that
I would have
forgotten my
self.”

(well i wanted
to know you
so badly that
i would have
forgotten my
self.) and
when I
closed the
portal
leading to
the short
hole
at the end
of the earth,
I wanted to scream my worth.
I wanted to give birth. I wanted to give birth
to
a
new
way
of
life
or
a
new
way
to
live.
My time to receive is over.
Now is my time to give. Ok,
number 1:
how do
you give
something
that
you
don’t have?
number 2:
what is a gift
if
it has to be
forced
on people?

why the fuck am i here
because it’s not to fulfill my ego.
That’s for goddamn sure.
I’m standing in the door between
Australia and Egypt and they’re starting to
look the same.
I’m going to
start
writing under a different name
like
Mark Twain
because
I’m tired

of
reading

my name
on
bad
music.
I have
a voice
and
everything
depends
on
how I use it,
and
I
try
to
make
my
writing
conclusive,
but no...

it makes
you
want to be
abusive, don’t it?
You want to pick me up right
now and shake me and say,
“how can you talk so
much without actually
saying a goddamn
thing?”
I can tell you,
I think.
I don’t put ink on paper,
i put paper on ink.
I pour some down,
place one on the
ground
and step on it
until it
speaks to me. No, I’m kidding. It doesn’t talk.

But words do appear.

man, I’m not fibbing.

I don’t do a damned thing.
I just say this stuff, I don’t make it up. And “god” makes me, so “god’s” fucked up.

He makes me say
it. He writes
these rhymes.
Line
after line,
I feel like I’m in
kindergarten
again
they’re so simplistic.
It’s nap time,
where’s my cot?
I’m going to bed.
I’ll write again later,
ink on my feet and gun to my head.

credits

from Self, released April 5, 2004

license

all rights reserved

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about

Jon Watts Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Quaker poet-producer-songsmith in West Philly.

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