Yin, my queen, was undiscovered.
Instead of royalty, a mother.
Lately she begins to smother.
Enticing me to yet another.

Yang, my king, he has no face.
But fullness in disfigured grace.
Charred instead by lapping waves.
Ideas wadded, thrown to graves.

Terrorist, chauvinist, make a list, burn it.
Hear a plea, guarantee, feel so free, turn it.