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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required A MAN MADE A MAD MASTER It’s on it’s way headed directly this way Actually it should have arrived yesterday I can sense the aromatic aroma of aristocracy And the smell of smugness which demands its arrival With all the senselessness of salacious survival It has no pungent nor odorous taste other than sour And from a plush pulpit does it demand undiluted power Whenever it shows up I am helpless against such a stern and tightly clenched fist As I am held hostage in a mill and I am its grist It doesn’t ask for a task to be done with a grin but rather clutches a riding crop As I do its bidding sweat drop to tear drop It arrives often and usually at night When the marauding moon crosses the threshold of the sun It bears no weapons for war upon And all there is for us is to wait until their gone As I fear too greatly to take up and readily run But quiver in a corner fearing for everyone Yet it sneaks in and declares its supremacy supreme For it knows the secret that they need no weapons to kill And as I said, all I am is more grist for the mill In the middle of a cloud and sleeping on a dream Scream! That’s all I can do And submit and be subservient to the sinfulness akin to every born again sinner While each and every time it is determined the winner I……….slave to a maudlin and murdering master Warn I today, for everyone, of disaster That is all I have to say And I swear now, at this crucial hour, wickedness is on its way © 2011.….Phreepoetry ~free cee!~
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