Sickly sickly treacle trickley
seeps on, mouldering down the crock.
Stickily sticky it steadily, trickily
keeps on for many a round of the clock.
I wonder I wonder if I would turn green
Should I gutsily plunder its festering urn,
Or should I desecrate such a picnic-y scene
If I’d gently expire or clamorously burn.
Quickly quickly treacle slickly
Drippily dribbles down onto the floor—
‘Fore I can supply my sick wonder
The trickley treacle has trickled off and is no more.
Give the people what they want,
let them have it quickly
The pot is on the boil,
hissing steam
Desires of an improper seethe
Angry thoughts on a roil,
the patience of diligence dissipating
Hurriedly, they the cast the peppery vote
For they all savor a king:
they alova his sweet, dainty speech
A savior king made of decaying flesh,
provides a nasty tasting
An unsightly welcome
to a feast of fools
Reaching clamorously for their
salty tongue tools
Their left hand holds the fork,
the right hand grips the knife
And belly growls
silver spoon demand
for the promised porridge
to be poured out more than twice
They have a gluttonous delight
for deceitful meat
The richness of the spice
gives the poor, ballot-starved souls
a covetous appetite
They say it don’t platter matter,
‘bout the color of the meat
But it seems the flavor tone changes,
when you turn up the heat
Give the people what they want ...
let them have it, poll quickly
Ever desirous for morsels of deceit —
Put a knife to the throat,
when that elected, grin ruler speak
We thrust ourselves on you
Greedily grabbing, ungraciously groping
Clamorously clawing, indiscriminately defiling
Every vestige of your dignity.
We hurl ourselves at you
Rudely ravaging, rowdily rummaging
Perspiring and panting, lusty and lecherous
To possess you in your entirety
Yet, we feel no shame
For
Raping the world we live in.
For
Being the architects of a ghetto
That once was
Paradise.
It is three am, and I wonder where you are, and why I am without you.........
Tick, tock...tick, tock...tick, tock...tick, tock...tick, tock...tick, tock...tick, tock.....
Each clock clamorously claims victory ~
Fleeting
Victory...
The sound of tires on a wet, dark highway is amplified, and I wonder how
Many of those travelers comprehend their destination and how many will
Arrive
Home
Safely...
Reality thrives not on rainbows.
It is winter, and I need to breathe ~ yes~ a scrupulous black and white.......
Austere borders...ice and rock...a conscience of the finest caliber................
Forty-seven years and my
Act
Remains
Imperfect;
Then, theatre, for me, has always been a spectator sport; although truth
Is on my side, I remain brutally beaten...
Why am I without you?
My pretty white crochet curtains surround the bleak, for your mystery makes
Me weary, and why does April taunt me so...
You reside in a stone hut, and I am a sleepwalking virgin.
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