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Tommy Twotone festers at the crossgate.
Pondering wonders of his ill fate.
“Am I one color or the other?”
“Am I two halves or a single slice?”
Where does he belong, what camp is his ground?
Is he to make his own way in the clock so wound?

One color or the other, so hard to decide.
Which course to take, which side to side.
Is he not his own man here and now?
Is he not a renegade of complacency?
Fighting all positions to vision his position.
Not a side stepper he’s a vet with a decision.
He makes his own world which you will have to live in.
Nobody tells him what he is and ain’t.
We all come in different shades and varied paint.