[Verse 1: Themba Ntaka]
Adroit with or without pot and that's made patent
Louts revel in carousal
Pack a towel to the spot
I'm a simple man
Throwing javelins or anything that touches hand
Vainglory is the biggest enemy if any
Pseudo poets opt to show it for the things that linger
Loser loser
Couldn't even nab a chicken finger
Habituated to resemble bugs antennal
Instrumental to survival and her touch was gentle;
Gentleman
Opened the door for so many of my friends
Half-stark soup pot
Petite marmite and a crust of croissant to a bourgeois
I've been flenched of my prowess by the Kryptonite stench
Lie decrepit like affected with tendinitis
Smoke waterfalls get made to float astern
Nappy hair to match my dendritic pattern