helgi
New Member
In order to be contraversial,
Against all order and verse,
Destroy all wretched harmony,
And kick it with a curse!
For getting fame, there is no frame,
For thought to be immersed,
The hand more clever finds it's frame,
Within the lady's purse!
But such a hand is hidden,
We should never bear it witness,
What beauty's in this exercise,
That's fit for burglar business?
To push the poet's bound's,
Which above should be a cell,
Advise the snail poet,
That he leave behind his shell,
For we have seen how slugs progress,
Much better than the snail,
Likewise poets walk undressed,
But never go to jail!
The vicor says the poets,
Have all turned the poetic proffesion,
To a discourse properly,
Mistooken as confession,
The boundry's now a shaded box,
Where poetry may shout,
The vicor hears the murder,
But he will not hear it out!
Never reccomend,
A lick of verse to the confessor,
He'll say the likes of verse,
To be a wicked poet oppressor!
But advice is never taken,
Without out manner of device,
A monkey on this poet's back,
Would rid him of his lice!
You'll never see such monkeys,
Be by other monkeys ridden,
Unless you find the barrel,
Where those monkeys have been hidden!
And if you roll the barrel,
You will quickly undermine,
This firm facade against all verse,
And hear them curse in rhyme!
Rhyme is not the poet's bane,
It has been persecuted,
Though not the chain, they'd have it chained,
To leave it ill reputed,
Just as the game of chess that's played,
Is valued for its rules,
That we in fun abide by them;
Will you mistake us fools?
Against all order and verse,
Destroy all wretched harmony,
And kick it with a curse!
For getting fame, there is no frame,
For thought to be immersed,
The hand more clever finds it's frame,
Within the lady's purse!
But such a hand is hidden,
We should never bear it witness,
What beauty's in this exercise,
That's fit for burglar business?
To push the poet's bound's,
Which above should be a cell,
Advise the snail poet,
That he leave behind his shell,
For we have seen how slugs progress,
Much better than the snail,
Likewise poets walk undressed,
But never go to jail!
The vicor says the poets,
Have all turned the poetic proffesion,
To a discourse properly,
Mistooken as confession,
The boundry's now a shaded box,
Where poetry may shout,
The vicor hears the murder,
But he will not hear it out!
Never reccomend,
A lick of verse to the confessor,
He'll say the likes of verse,
To be a wicked poet oppressor!
But advice is never taken,
Without out manner of device,
A monkey on this poet's back,
Would rid him of his lice!
You'll never see such monkeys,
Be by other monkeys ridden,
Unless you find the barrel,
Where those monkeys have been hidden!
And if you roll the barrel,
You will quickly undermine,
This firm facade against all verse,
And hear them curse in rhyme!
Rhyme is not the poet's bane,
It has been persecuted,
Though not the chain, they'd have it chained,
To leave it ill reputed,
Just as the game of chess that's played,
Is valued for its rules,
That we in fun abide by them;
Will you mistake us fools?