If true wit were like shit
You’d have no fertilizer
If vision was an incision
You’d be cut free
If fuel came from deceit
You’d be an energizer
If gall
Made one ball
You’d be a golf tee
If petty made you steady
You’d be concrete
If scorn could make horns
You’d be the greatest brass band
If shoulding gave sure footing
You’d be ten million feet
If bland excluded sitting
You’d finally take a stand
If making others worry
Was a jury
You’d be the people
If pretending
Was ascending
You’d be
A church steeple
If feeling
Made tight ceilings
You’d be an open sky
If hate was mixed paint
You’d be tie-died
If conniving was real srtiving
You’d be Richard Nixon
If scheming
Had real meaning
You’d have
Something to say
Then and only then
You’d have something to say