Something stinks about a calendar.
Like the numbers don’t add up.
The days don’t rhyme
The months don’t match
People have had enough.
We oughta go back
To writing on sand.
That’s where our plans work out.
And if they don’t
Nobody knows.
Nothing to scream or shout.
Just takin’ each day as each day comes.
No one needs to lose their cool.
Them who are angry bout this or that
Let ’em spout like that fool.
The fool who believes
That shit works out
It does, but thanks to no plan.
Cause when it works out
Just as imagined
Only one guy got a plan.
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