I don't quite get it,
laughing in the idea of kicking up dust,
smacking myself, trying to keep myself silent,
as you dance around solid put downs,
what's wrong with a little dust?
I don't quite get it,
12 days strong I'd come home simply to tear the blisters off my feet with concrete,
I don't quite get it,
my tan washed off don't you see,
the true miles,
they had left me yesterday after I got home,
so I laugh in the idea of kicking up dust,
nasty greedy with it even,
I'm not afraid to admit it, I miss it,
simply the blisters on my feet,
the size of quarters so well tendered,
just to blow up and dry to the sound of steel drums,
and I'd laugh and tell you I always had fun kicking up the dust,
for it's only kicking up dust,
I become the color of dust,
having always grown in powder dust,
it makes sense I would strive for camouflage,
it's part of the fun the dust that gets in your socks.