All Plans Are Made Of Shit

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.