Scissors Man

You're a waste of a man The last choice for a sane person The weirdest weirdo amidst weirdos You just don't fit in — Like a pole climbing strap Trying to be forced into a blue Jeans What an abuse of the word, Belt... You're not the tallest Nor the darkest Neither are you the brightest Yet, whenever you're amidst your peers You're always singled out — The only one stereotyped as He's good with the scissors... Your dreams are always overboard At least, so we all think You work tirelessly Like the minutes hand of the London clock Yet we see no changes in you All you're left with each New Year's Eve Is a new pair of scissors How do you do that How do you wake every morning With your pair of scissors And head out to make nothing Yet, you've got the best smile You really don't worry about a thing How do you do that If I were you, man I'd have traded my scissors for a pen But you ain't a writer Or I'd have traded my scissors for a mic But you ain't a rapper Wait! How about trading your scissors for... Nothing Nothing is a relative concept What I see and call nothing Might be what you see and call textile I'd trash it out in the waste bin And you being the trash guy You scissors it out into a T-shirt They say cut your clothes In accordance with your body Well, you've got the scissors You know more of that than I possibly can While we're here as your peers Holding a hundred yards of life's textile We don't know how to make a hankie With regard to the textiles I've got probably the best colour Arum's got the thickest and latest of them all In fact, yours is the biggest Let down of all time textiles Yet you really don't mind Because, you've got the scissors Truthfully, man I envy your attitude towards your scissors The way you cling to it Like it's attached to your lungs And you can't breathe without it You even gave her a name — Atong Who gives a scissors a name You're your own man You do your own thing You think your own thoughts You've got your own time Leaving us in a loop called trend You my friend are just you Nothing more and nothing less You made your tool your best friend While I made my pen and my paper My worse enemy Arum on the other hand Has good brains But thinking is now the death of him We hate our tools Well, I guess perspective holds so much But sometimes we're blinded by The cataract from our ignorance And wannabe syndrome We lose our uniqueness In trying to be standardised like everyone else I'ma just be customised now like you are And like I said Your thoughts are overboard Into the depths of the sea Beyond what mere eyes can see No one knows what you want Keep being you You might just be the world's best scissors man...