Tapped out, the spring is empty, wet, fluid, and he left me, maybe next season, a druid, I'm a mortal, you're a mortal, let's feast for thirty days, he's lame, and the next thing echoed out, left, he came,

Maybe I should be sober for this,

Maybe I'll be able to process more,

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Feed on a dream,

For a thousand years,

Just a poet,

His rhymes, this girl, and a third thing, maybe an eleventh thing, yeah, place it there, rushed, ran away, a fourth thing,

What reflects back,

Who knows,

I can still write when baked,

But yeah, maybe,

The spring has faded, empty, a fourth thing, fated, I’m late again, fall in love,

This is growing up,

Blink-182.