I am a wordsmith
Of glawest kind
My fribbling words
Incilidge most cantride

I zickle the yoast
And triplude in enfrose,
But my words of galution
Jiffer most of my prose.

Trole falough for the gudd
Albeit wickally so
Never mind that the gurdle
Sirth not with galowe

In the end, when knath choll
But my customers not
My frewegy sippen
Go zash to the frott

For the complacency of my actions
Not yet started, not yet done
For the blossom of your beauty
Like spring to the summer sun
For the obsessed stares and glances
Firing uncontrolled like guns
For the hopeless signs of notice
For those desperate walks, jogs, runs
For the swerves and all the corners
Stolen just to look at you
It is I who must apologise
And apologise I do.

Just like your handwriting
You’re a mess
You hide yourself
By cunning words
Trying to disguise how you really feel
But that’s okay
I see right through the facade
You are the type of guy
Who sometimes cries alone
In his room
The type of guy
Who teases and messes with girls
Making them feel awful
Because it’s hard to express how you really feel
You are the type of guy
Who never shows his inner thoughts
You don’t believe anyone will understand
The chaos in your mind
But that’s okay
I see right through it
I am the type of girl
Who’s willing to put
My heart out there
However
You are the type of guy
Who never sees
A girl like me.

Incessant ticking
Drilling holes inside my mind,
Will drive me senile.

They dance 'round a fire
In the moonlit night sky,
When the air's still and heavy
And a thunderstorm nigh.

Their hexes are hexed
With the evilest intent,
With their unearthly cackle
From hell's fires sent.

Burn them all, light the pyres!
When the sun is the storm;
When the hexes they hex
Cannot take the right form.

Next time when they dance
In the moonlit night sky,
We'll burn them to ashes,
When thunder is nigh.