I would call you flakey
But the definitiveness of such a label
Would put you in a box that you would inevitably escape from
So I won’t group you into anything with any particularity
Since structure is such a rarity
You’re flakey like warm buttermilk biscuits
Like perfectly prepared grouper
Promises from a whino in a drunken stupor
Your flake knows no bounds
Crosses all color lines, religions and creed
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