2 Kinds of Fool

Seems each Tuesday we meet
With shrapnel in our jeans
At the same storefront
With no better place to be
Than idling on a dream
Disappointed that we
Weren’t so hard done by
Yet evermore ill-at-ease
Why does a man like me
Have to be convinced
That I’m not the man
You promised I’d be
- If I could meet myself
I’d tell him the truth
There are two kinds of fool;
Me and You.

Chance would be a fine thing
But I don’t have the means
To harness my soul
On a desire to succeed
Granted, I’ve quietly
Nurtured this guilt to breed
A crisis of faith
To crush a wayward esteem
Why does a man like me
Have no sympathy
For another man
Though brothers we’d seem
- If I could see myself
I would recognise
There are two kinds of fool;
You and Me.