Dirt, love, routine. You start getting tinned. You might've been a sailor and now you're a failure. For fate is not fair, it is a sly snare. No way for a guy to be fully prepared.
They look at your face and see but a stranger, the feelings inside are though those of a ranger. Skyrocket your soul, make your life your own. And never look back at those doubting your role.
Partying's outdated, but good food is healthy. Cushy job searches, an occasional selfie. You think 'bout happiness, coz that is what matters — 'bout chasing your dream to spite pitiful haters. And stopping you dead is one damn circumstance — "I'm but a bug in a world of big pence."
Wedding ahead. Road of surprises. Baby cries, fights — you feel shadows rising. Longings you had, and the wishes you harboured — all set aside as your life's getting darker.
Making believe this is just getting started: no way to run, no way to fight it. A cell in your brain whispers naggingly, "Blast it!" You begin your fall into day-to-day hustle.
The moment you fail you start journey up, it is what it is — path of thorns and screw-ups. Torn up to pieces, with bruises all over, it dawns on you straight-up you are being owned.
"I may be a failure, I may be a sluggard, but life is a test and I ain't giving up yet."