boulangerie POM

At the end of the road sits the bend
An old desk made of the front door
I'll question a blessing
Like it was handed to me from the guest
How often I'm breaking down steps
You gave instructions for the PBJ
Didn't even note what kinda bread

Wheat or 3 grain
There's a bread store a short walk from my place
I go there when I can't catch a breath
I don't got a type
Besides a large fence, a fireplace
Only thing left in my pocket is the quarter rest
One more thing, at least some sort've driveway
My criteria is the message sent
I won't double-check
I can see the impact from my standing place
I wait for the bus back to catch
Picking apart this cold sandwich with my dry hands
Only thing in my pocket is scrap paper with an index of my plans
Just one sentence written
Why don't you leave it to chance?
Why don't you leave it to chance?
That might need another revision of sorts
I'll take time tonight to work out this cramp
I call the dog in
I know there's something in that mouth of his
I put out my hand
He looks in my eyes for a split second
Till I reach out and pull open his mouth like a sedan

Getting in my heads the cut corner
I ain't picky bout the split what you arguing on
It's all taste it's all aesthetics
I cut the stack of slices with my forearm

Getting in my heads the cut corner
I ain't picky bout the split what you arguing on
It's all taste it's all aesthetics
I cut the stack of slices with my forearm