Just give me a little longer.
Four more days,
Or weeks,
Actually let's go with years.
I need more time to adjust;
I just have so many fears.
What if I look overdressed
In my binding?
What if my cover is boring, bland,
And I look like I've been buried
Purposefully in the sand?
I don't really think I'm interesting,
No one will ever find me pleasing,
I can already hear the teasing,
Maybe I should stay in the sand.
They may say that I talk too much
Or too little;
I'm not quite sure,
And this malady of being unnoticed,
I don't believe there is a cure.
I think I'll stay here
For a few more days
Weeks, years,
Then I might be found lovely
After they drink and have a few beers.
Because they may say that I go on
About nothing of import--
They say
They want more action, less sorrow
Or more.
Maybe they think that I'm a bore,
But what if they like to feel pity,
Of a sort,
Then I'm not quite sure
If I should change,
Or if my humor is really enough.
This business, it's really pretty rough.
But what if they say I describe myself poorly?
And they throw me aside without thought?
I don't know if I can take the rejection,
I surely can't be under inspection,
I definitely won't take any correction.
So give me four more days,
Four more weeks,
Four more years.
I doubt I'll ever be ready, but so what?
I only need a little longer.