Jealous of the cat fur on your pants

Generally you can get outta of jail if you post bail but not me.
I know you won’t ever come home because you think someplace else, someone else, something else, better will be home to you one day.
You gotta beat the eggs first if you want an omelet they say.
Bail just means I have to bring my dumb ass back to court, like I always seem to need to do with you.
And I can’t wait until that day comes.
Can’t make an omelet without a heated pan, I understand.
But you know I’m a flight risk boy if the situation is as bad as I think it might be.
One day you’ll finally see.
Can’t add the bullshit until the eggs are no longer liquid if you want an omelet, sweetie.
Without a bondsman ain’t no affording bail for me clearly.
And when you finally do see reality I’ll never tell you that your journey was wrong.
If you don’t fold it in half, it’s not an omelet, after all.
Don’t mean I’ma get off on my own recognizance.
Whatever route it took was the right one whether it brings you back to me or not.
Omelets slide onto plates if you did it right, butterscotch.
Legal proceedings can’t even deter me because I’m not healing.
I’ll love you always anyway, like my favorite songs, an old T-shirt, or The Grand Canal.
The chicken came first after all.

 

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