I don’t have a checkered past—
It’s more polkadot
Some of it I’ll never forget, but more of it I’ll never remember.
And thank heavens for that:
I’ve read the police blotters I’ve made cameos in
and if I can take their word for it
then I’d just rather leave certain things blotted, please.
How do I look on paper?
Well, that all depends on the paper.
(College transcripts and rap sheets, unfortunately, are two entirely different kinds of coverage.)
One of my finest moments:
Being asked by a cop what I was on probation for
without wasting any time
and smirking in his stupid fucking pig face
because it was true
and I thought myself
oh so clever.
The moral of the story?
Hubris gets you handcuffs
and my answer to the same question today
would be very different, indeed.
The past is really no different from some stupid fucking pop song
that pops into your head every once in awhile
just to remind you that it exists
even though it used to be all over the place
and sometimes you repeat one part of the song in your head
and other times it’s another
and if you’re particularly unlucky it’s the entire fucking thing
and as much as you can’t stand the god damn tune
you gotta admit that the hook is kind of catchy
and that one refrain ain’t so bad
and maybe there’s one line in there
buried deep in between all the other useless ones
that you really dig
and can still relate to a little bit
even though the song still sucks
and it’s driving you crazy.
But it always goes away as soon as you start humming a different tune.
Dig that new tune, kid,
but never forget the old number either.
For old time’s sake.