Poezja

your hair is growing on my back
and you don't come with scissors
my head is bald and yours is missing
do hand me a pair of whiskers

everything is out of place
and I am in the middle
you ask me to forget you not
but you play second fiddle

oh, let us jump on hemp or fiber
and leave the ropes to misery
you go first and I will stay
on lines of shallow mystery