I wake up and I want to bust my nut,
I finish writing and I want to bust my nut,
I go down stairs, I feel that I’m more likely to see something pretty and I know the urge to busta nut will come, this expectation makes me want to bust my nut.
I busta nut in the morning and at night I want to bust my nut,
I know it won’t do anything but there’s a tension,
There’s an on going tension in my dick and it makes me uncomfortable.
How dare nature give me such unsatisfactory busts,
How dare nature allow me to live a life where I can bust and still want to bust again straight after,
This is a cruel punishment.
So I sit here, wistfully embodying the truth I know to be real,
The dream of a world where no man ever busts unsatisfactorily again,
That the secrets of reality are distilled to all my brothers who so truly yearn to go to sleep, that’s all we wish for, all we wish for, to sleep, to dip into unconsciousness, leave reality, out of the matrix and into never land…
Yet here we lie awake, wiping up our mess only to see crushing reality befall upon me.
And you religious folk, you pure women will say you aren’t living true,
That the man who lives true never experiences these moments and I weep.
I weep at your calloused nature, you heartless folk, unable to look an animal in its eyes and understand.
This is my true nature.
Some will say here that I am just joking and they will laugh,
But if I brought this up to those very people in person they’ll say why can’t I just be serious, why can’t I just be real.
And all I can do is sit,
I, the man who listens to James Newton Howard, who is in awe of existence,
Am being told by you, the lady who spent so many years ignoring her heart, to be real…