Maybe I should be a writer,
write a book and feel much brighter
and share my thoughts with the world.
Or maybe I could be a film maker;
celluloid, more fun than paper.
You never see the screen's corners curl.
Ah! Maybe then I could be a lover,
find a girl and win her over
and tell her that she's the only one.
But maybe then a philanderer,
I'd sneak around and lie to her,
and kid myself that I'm the happy one.
I'm not looking out for four leaf clover,
I'm just waiting for hell to freeze over.
Maybe I should take the mic',
stand up tall like Michael Stipe
and try to solve the problems of the earth.
Or maybe then I should sit back down,
scratch my chin and use my frown
and try to figure out exactly what I'm worth.
We're still building churches, burning books,
killing the babies to feed the crooks.
Who said the world would turn out fair?
So I guess I'll dig myself a hole,
ask the devil if he wants my soul,
And do something real like cut my hair.
Ooh, maybe this and maybe that,
it may be satin, it may be sack.
It won't really matter much in the end.
May be my enemy, may be my friend?
I'd drive myself around the bend,
thanks for your time and ears to lend.

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