The lunatic caressed the words of the lips
The saint crept the innocent’s soul
The first spurt his ink in the pulp
The second groped for the flesh’s call
The rhymester’s itch by pen, relief!
The copulator’s, prey’s grief!
The poet died sane with words
The ****** in fire abodes!
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
The lunatic caressed the words of the lips
The saint crept the innocent’s soul
The first spurt his ink in the pulp
The second groped for the flesh’s call
The rhymester’s itch by pen, relief!
The copulator’s, prey’s grief!
The poet died sane with words
The ****** in fire abodes!
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