It’s true my most salient characteristic,
My most notable trait is that I love to kick it.
I’m a sybarite all right, my life’s devoted to pleasure.
I’m a voluptuary, the seven senses are my treasure.
I’m from a great long line of hedonists, those who seek pleasure,
Lick wine from lips, so when I see a sky so blue
and immaculate, spotless, perfect,
I give thanks for it.
I don’t want to spend that day locked up in a classroom,
unless it’s a mad storm, a deluge, or monsoon.
I have a natural inclination, a propensity to be free,
I’m running through the fields and the trees.
I’m so sick of florescent lights, it’s tantamount to being actually sick.
I told that to my doctor but he didn’t buy it,
he was incredulous, a nonbeliever,
even though I was running a 101 fever.
"That’s a novel problem," I said.
"A problem with a book?" He said,
"A problem that’s new so let me take another look."
Leaves me shook, not to see the sun is deleterious,
it causes injury and it leaves me delirious.
After six hours in a room I get frantic and frenetic,
I get freakier than circus freaks and I start to panic.
In a grotto or a cave I always misbehave,
I’m hot-tempered and irascible when I’m at a rave.

I can’t think when the sun’s shining bright outside . . .

Doctor, I feel some kind of malaise,
a general unease and my mind’s in a haze.
I’m so sure, I don’t have a modicum of a doubt
that I’m too sick to leave this bed and go up out.
I feel like a newborn infant, a neonate,
the world looks new, and I don’t feel great.
I’m having some olfactory problems with my sense of smell.
Everything smells like waffles and I’m tense as well.
I think I’ve got a fracture in my fortitude,
I think my courage is breaking, and I’m not faking.
I also think it’s kind of ominous, a portentous sign
that every time I try to rhyme my eyes start crying.
I have this presage, a future-thought, a premonition
that by two weeks from Friday I’ll be no longing living,
dead in the kitchen, keys in the ammunition.
My doctor said, "If you die it’s your own volition."
You can exercise your free will, it’s not predestination,
and if it seems so it’s just a prestidigitation,
just a trick, just a sleight of God’s big hands.
It’s just a tenuous argument with no substance.
You’re obfuscating the discussion," my doctor said.
"You’re adding irrelevant facts to screw up my head.
You purport to be sick, you claim that you’re ill,
but you’re feigning, faking, and that’s the real deal."

I can’t think when the sun’s shining bright outside . . .

Now typically, doctor, I’m full of vim and vigor,
Now I feel hung over, but I drank no liquor.
Would it be a little quicker if you just stop all the talk, doc,
call the paramedics or cops.
I’m being honest, I tell you, I’m being veracious,
I’m not lying, it’s not erroneous and not fallacious.
You know I don’t engage in histrionics,
I’m not melodramatic and I don’t throw fits.
I’m not a fabulist, these here are no fables,
I flow on turntables, I scoop with no ladles.
I just want to get better, want some convalescence,
want to escape from schools and the basements.
There’s a dearth of sunlight in my daily life.
I want the days of farmer ‘cause his days must be rife
with sunlight, full of luminescence and brightness.
I become lithe and limber in the sun there’s no tightness.
You pull down those shades you pique my anger,
you prick my finger, you start up the danger.
I travel on foot so I peregrinate.
My love of nature’s natural so it’s innate.
I have a penchant for rustic walks up and down the coast.
When I can’t take a walk I get gloomy and morose.
The only way that I could be mollified or appeased,
is to tear the roofs off the schools and let us all free.

I can’t think when the sun’s shining bright outside . . .