By virtue of what do the many lions roar
When silence speaks to thee near or far?
To what end could you shut the open door
That let in the light from the nearest star?
I am that creaking hinge which bothers so,
I squeak in the small hours of the night
And wake I the merry wives that know
Something is in the air, all is not right.
You smell of perfume, ***, and death
Wherefore wert thou, O Romeo?
She asks, “Hast thou not answered yet?”
What hides beneath that veil of virtue,
And was it all that you had hoped it'd be?
The candle burns at both ends for thee.