Cause I'm a champion

From seven to three, no time to think.

From seven to three, he will do it for money, money, money. His girl is in between two messed up worlds, he’ll think about it later, first comes money. It’s a Russian roulette, a gun filled with satisfaction and no fear, ‘cause without words or moments to stop and stare there is nothing to face and bear. She’s so fine, she’ll get off work earlier to wait up for him with her car, kisses, damn I missed your lips, sorry gotta go. His son is so smart, so nonesuch, spread some juice on the kitchen floor for the attention, daddy’s not mad, he’s late at the office, good child. Shoot the man with whatever you have the slave’ll handle it. To save up his energies, he can’t do otherwise, maybe later. Later, okay?

From seven to three, he would’ve done it for the looks, for the attention, for the recognition. Now he can’t do anything but stare with bitterness at what performs, reacting like a nerve terminal to every provocation, even at every run-of-the-mill situation. 'Are we talking about me? About the crazy awesome thing I did in 1978?' She’s so fine… now he knows she’s a whore, during his overtimes, from others she was begging for more, of that he’s sure. He needs to answer the phone. He needs to run at the door. To look in her handbag. His boy has grown and he can’t admit the kid's smart, maybe smarter than him; though he doesn’t deserve to go karting. Daddy’s a champion, can’t you just be less mouthy and thank him for being your father?

From seven to three, to four, to eleven, to forever, too much time to think.