I've got an inklin'
that singin' ain't my forte.
Infinite clef notes from my lips
denounce ego trips, and make studios flip
from exerting mediocre melodies.
They say I've got mediocre tendencies
to make Apollo wanna accept me.
Apollo will never shine its lime light on me,
Or in my direction.
No thundering applause will stroke my affection,
just as no rearing hook will give birth to my rejection.
It all evens out.
Oh I've got enough vocals
to get thorugh church socials
and can prolong a song
to prove I've got some know-hows.
So, for now... singin' ain't my forte.
I can't blow like Shirley Ceasar
(my goods could never see her)
or compete with Ella Fitz
('cause God's not given me the gift).
But I'll be more
to sing behind closed doors
and attempt to sound half as good as Chante Moore,
as I sit and croon on kitchen floors...
The presence of my essence
carries some type of innocence
(at least that's what they say),
But I think I'll stick to these
'cause singin'... it just ain't my forte!