He worships words as if all were his mothers
Keeps the best work in a cardboard shoebox
Hidden underneath the bed as a secret
Guarded by the playmates of the month
Waiting for the right time to come
Still the best author for his mom
She'd always wanted to be an older already
Not best employee of the month
One day, I'm going to be a singer
Young lady, get your lazy ass back to work
Waiting for the right time to come
Singing on her way to work
She didn't listen when he asked her already twice
Hey, what you do after work
Maybe it's all because a pile of shoeboxes
Covered up the charm of his words
Waiting for the right time to come
Maybe I should write a song
