I fear a father's wrath With the inspiration of a trapped gazelle. So I tiptoe around it To show it I am craftier than it's dull imagination. I stare, eyes locked forward as I hunt down my oppressor. Then the lion roars And I'm just a ruminant of the sahel again My instincts kick in, my muscles tense up I wish I wasn't, but I'm: Running, breaking my legs. Waking up as a naked 2-legged animal in a bed of straw. Pondering what I should have said instead of fled. But which stupid goat bleats back when a lion roars? Wear the old grey hoodies And obscure yellow pants of a dead man. They hang on the bleachers in a corner not meant to be seen In the corner Of your eye Of the pool you can still see the real owner in his own clothes (Yellow sure is an odd color for sweatpants) Slumped onto the ground Beside the pool. You take up the mantle anyway Stuff the parts of you unseen even by you into the greasy grey of another man It's just for a minute It's all that fate really is. Then you're in piss stained sweat pants. Then you're in water too deep for inexperienced swimming Then youre floating on the sea through the night Your final resting place? A bleacher in the obscurity of a corner, The gaze of a little boy eating himself up.