The Tormentor
And he talks; and I listen
O how this ever goes on!
Quiet sometimes,others loud as train whistles
Why not let in peace my wretched soul?
But as balls t'ward theirs goals
So our savage joust goes.
He pulls ever at my strings
So that the white cloud no longer sings
So that a white thought no longer swings
For that drink of relief
Amidst my desert of torture.
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