Coffee and Ointments

Parking in a spot not too far from the house, I’m beat.
No kids on the corner, it’s dark, so I’m incogneet.
Oh, would it be nice if time and money weren’t my opponents.
Pop would say, it sucks to be poor and white, don’t it?

He knows all too well about 16 hour days of duties unsavory,
Do what you gotta do, familial bravery.
As I sit in the idling car, ready to shut it off and get out,
I have thoughts that I’ve been spread too thin like wet grout.

When I was a little boy with more bone than muscle,
I played stickball all day, wishing I was Chuck Hustle.
Or maybe Mike Schmidt with the shimmy than home run,
But so far, life’s been short and prudish like a gnome nun.

Not saying woe is me; life hasn’t been all that bad,
But there’s vacuous voids, or shit that I wish I had.
Like making money everyday while feeling utter enjoyment,
Instead of working shit jobs, driving in a car full of coffee and ointments.

Neosporin and other stuff for people suffering from adult acne,
I can’t get rid of the facial Vesuvii, I’ve had them since I was a latchkey.
In other words, I’m tired and I want to be shot with a musket,
Thank God my little wife’s inside making instant mashed and chicken cutlets.