I am the fool who waits at your door, With a package in hand, and a line to be signed. You are the fool who stairs at the floor, With a mop meant to clean, and a rag meant to shine. If this poem had meaning I would ask you to seek it, But it doesn’t, and frankly, it’s a waste of your time. If this poem had rhythm I would ask you to feel it, But it doesn’t, and frankly, I’m no good at rhyme. Procrastination, Retaliation, Consternation, Oh, oh, oh. I can rhyme, oh what a time, Ation, ation ation, oh. Suffix creations and fabrications, Just add the ation, There you go. I am a fool who refuses to change. You are a fool who never asks why. Together I guess we’d look pretty strange, But so far we can’t even see eye to eye. If this poem had meaning I would ask you to seek it, But it doesn’t, and frankly, it’s a waste of your time. If this poem had rhythm I would ask you to feel it, But it doesn’t, and frankly, I’m no good at rhyme. I am the fool who waits at your door, With a package in hand, and a line to be signed. You are the fool who stairs at the floor, With a mop meant to clean, and a rag meant to shine. And in the end that’s all there is, Ation, ation, ation, oh.