Black-Top Fry

On my free period On the ash fault I lay and smell like rubber and heat Frying on the black-top It’s so damn hot out here But I don’t want to move Because if I do I’ll have to speak Someone will ask me what’s wrong ‘Cause you can’t just lay on the black-top and think In sleeves so long and dark With hair so dark a halo I must be burning up But no one will question until I sit up Am I sad they will ask What happened and I’ll say Nothing out of the ordinary Just more of the same old things Same old pains Then they’ll make me see a councilor So for now I will lay Frying on the black-top Cold burning hot and numb And mutter that I’m fine