Buttersilk
I am so quaint on the edge
to my honor shall I pledge
walking the thin rope
in a shallow disarray of hope
feigning the lose of ability to cope
my emotional charade is only a facade
the american citadel fell to inform
shall I now tow the norm
in this fluffy buttered pan of notoriety
that all my ego tastes of buttersilk.
Copyright © Malcolm Dyer | Year Posted 2007
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