Through hustle and bustle
One mustn't fuss bout the struggle no
Leaving our frontal lobe muscles
Bulging like punches thrown
Call us knuckleheads then I guess
We're flexing temples
While our endocrine glands
Be famished, flummoxed and fed slow
Left standing half-stunned
Stumbling bumbling clubfootedness
About to erupt something up
Like mount Vesuvius
Through the foolishness
Of trying to get our grips
Hiding inner conflicts often
Though struggles we all got them
Lets just be honest.
To Be Frank: 