The Mime

Oh how the mime has learned how to speak his mind
On the corner of Ajax and Turpentine
With banana bread hands he cuts too slow
To the chase me round candles where he wants to go
In the place of a laser-light-show

He's a clockwork man
Get it
Got it
Good for you
The attention span
Of a rubber Band-Aid
Home made from the lent in his pocket watch
Though he can't explain why he bathes in chains
Still, the hope remains in changing lanes
With a fuzzy sun gun through an empty pun
Colonel Mustard must of done it for the fun

Palpitating pancakes
Palpotatoe heartaches
Flipara flapjacks
Macaronic n' cheese
Frailty, oh the man a plumb
Crimson peach beaten to a pulp
Tearing fleshy grape drapes
Stinky pits and all:
Society's juiced pare at its finest
Now you're a mime
So shut it!