A Man Will Never Choose a Lime For It Is a Sour Spirit
A man will always choose a fine flavored ancient wine over a lime,
Running around causing mayhem, persecuting like a piece of slime,
Slithering around chanting her songs of a hermetical circle demon,
Implanted in her head and voices she hears like a devilish semen.
Something that sour is meant to be thrown in the garbage or trash,
They cause this bad soulful itch that remains like a gushing infected rash,
The mystic pulls out her sword and begins to slay this devil with a roar,
I will not bend over like he does because I will always have wings to soar.
Copyright © Dawn Gordon | Year Posted 2011
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