The trouble with poets is they talk too much

They tell us it hurts them a little more

And we cannot tell if they make this up

We've never stood in their shoes, in skins, in their heads, on their shores



The trouble with you is you drive me nuts

I cannot tell what's behind your smile

What can we find just to lift us up

Just for tonight, for a time, for the sake us of all for awhile



I know it's only trouble

I know it makes us real

I wish that peace of mind was something I could steal



The trouble with shoes is they come untied

You might take a fall down the stairs

And a poet might come along and say,