I can't write introspectively anymore.

I think too fast. In the middle of a very long-winded piece where I try to nut out some serious dilemma the old noggin skips ahead a few minutes and finds the conclusion I was already working too. Underlying reasons are always so simple. Nothing is complex.

So what's the game?
Everyone has a racket

A deal, a bit, a thunder to be stole

We've all got our pride, boy

So what's your game on this big blue bowl?

From whence does your pride spring?

Everyone has a beat

And you know mine can't be beat

Sit down

Take a seat

You sure aren't 7 feet

But you could be great you know

You just need to outrun fate

And fate's a little slow

What's the game?

What's your game?