You think that I'm a worrier, With caution on my side, And pity all the things I don't - All the life I haven't tried. Those foods I never tasted, And the bus I didn't catch, To err beyond all reason, For the love I couldn't snatch.
Perhaps you see me as a bore, When I dance in flat-soled shoes, Sticking to beats that only grandma likes, Avoiding jazz and blues. And the panic that my heart can't take, How I dream of quiet existence, Drawing back from what you want me to, With a manically-screeched insistence.
I may not grab life by the horns, And ride it like a bull, But I assure you, my most dearest friend - It's still a life lived to the full. So what, my passport has no stamps? So what, I stay at home? In my books I am still travelling, With company preferred - alone.
And yes, it's true, I think too much, Detail all plans of failing, And copious means of painful doom, (And all the destruction that's entailing). But consider this, it's what I like, And who I am to be - So mither not about my life, And leave the worrying to me.