asinine thoughts lurk in the depths of my minds swamps
tapping my jaw with my finger tips like the hands of a clock
click clacking my cause in a fevered pitch, cause time never stops
when I'm landing shots to feed an itch without brandishing a glock.
On my falconry tip, call me Grim or Kestrel since I look up to a hawk
when i acquire the range that's orchestral to my higher line of thought