When you prowl like a lion on the streets
Fainéants that prattle hide behind sheets
Over their heads hang a serene hush
As the hypnagogic fields suddenly become lush
Your whims are subtly inscrutable
Like seeing in deserts iced water tables
Your acts prove unpredictable
Who knows maybe you'll soon ride a tiger into a stable
Won't you make the macerator mad
Or cause the cursing critter to cry
Spare the young and innocent lad
And the old raconteur who shouldn't yet die hard
Death carries with it the dagger of suddenness
It decimates amidst concealed sullenness
Nonetheless, we are yet akin
To one with incorruptible skin.
Ara 'deinde
14:07, 12/02/15
#empireofbards
NB. Photo credit: wallpaper-kid.com
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