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She lied in a bed of complacency to embrace her stagnant progress.
Thinking she’d mastered everything regarding content.
She pulled out her book of verses, in which she had it scribed,
“I am the master shepherd, for want of better not shall I strive.”
She will forever bond them in marriage, til death part ways.
In a bed with her, self satisfaction while the best harp plays.
She lays in with the lad and never furthers her plans.
Always in the same place, but such is surely the case
When the chariot race is on a circular track.
No more oil to burn in her lamp. She stays in the dark with the burliest man.
So indulgent, so compulsive, so erosive, she’s murdered her chance
Trynna twirl on the lap, hoping all the earth will just clap,
But they only see a repeat of an earlier dance.
They see no change in style, play or some form of latter content.
They just see a lonesome girl in a bed of complacency, in embrace with her stagnant progress.