This shell harbors one full cast in desperate need of a crew.
Playing each role in stride ignoring the characters' names on the side.
The antagonist just is the protagonist,
and her plucky sidekick, too.
Don't look carefully, and you can believe it's a ruse.
Besides, the choreography's wrong, and the jester's an agonist.

This identity is merely an illusion.
Every act just a comedic melodramatic allusion.
If you peer closely, no you still don't see who's next.
Who will I be this week?
A sweetheart, an asshole, a lover, or a God?
At any point which can even be said is me?

There is no coherent story, only noise
that you put together hoping for consistency,
but at the end of the day it's nonsense and with
some luck the mish mash of feeling has you some joys.

On a knee, have a seat and please stand up.
We have things to do, whoever we happen to be.
Maybe we'll kiss the world, show some love.
Probably just another stain on the sin cup.
Can you hold me responsible? The previous tenant made this
mess. Well, I suppose you can.

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