Hey mister boy with the bad hair

straw blonde and frayed like old bandaids,

thin pencil lines of shaking flaking lips,

And your bleached farmer pants

and fratboy tee- shirts, 

your expensive analog wristwatch in silver inlay,

It seems every time I open my mouth to speak 

those whining curling pencil lips open

to speak over my inadequate mind.

Mister boy with the acne pucker scars 

educate me, explain to me please,

why you grace and bless me with your profound thoughts.