how much bad advice can I blindly follow?
| Babbling Apparently
Like a glass house's thrown rock
This chip off the ol' block
is only a splinter.
I look gift horses in the mouth
And doubt that birds fly south
for the winter.
I bite the hand that feeds
And speak using words not deeds
for all the luck I can push.
I build my house on the sand
And drop the bird from my hand
to chase those in the bush.
As the plot inevitably thickens
I dare to count my chickens
before they hatch,
And holding its breaths
My mouth writes checks
my body can't cash.
I fear everything but fear itself
And put your promises on the top shelf
with every pretty thing I've ever heard.
I squiggle my own apostrophes
Into all these senseless sophistries
because they're worth more than your word.