"diplomat" poems
Born like a kid,
Believed like a child,
Thought like a philosopher,
Depressed like a prisoner,
Felt like a sinner,
Hated like a lawyer,
Ate like a veterinarian,
Lied like a politician,
Read like a historian,
Saw like a physician,
Slept like a pharmacist,
Smelt like a scientist,
Spoke like a priest,
Heard like an economist,
Loved like a counselor,
Tasted like a rich bachelor,
Worked like a tool,
Cheated like a fool,
Walked like a diplomat,
And died like a cat.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
Toking on a cloud with ******* Jesus and his family
Lame folks ask me how,
its cause I ******* smoke
religiously
No God I smoke religious tree,
I get ****** in the name of heresy
You angry penguin ****** preach acceptance
So praise the Lord and ******* shame on me
My guise is Satan *****
and my swag is undisguisible
heartless and no conscience,
sicksicksix most recognizable
-that statement may surprise a little but since we all surmise a little
Why deny me as the devil when
When I clearly play a golden fiddle. . .
From Hell I made a deal
and there is no repeal
nothing you see is real,
I will invade and pervade your mind
So wait in anticipation,
life's a figment of your own imagination
I'll watch you dissipate into oblivion
Pound for pound,
I'm a cenobite at heart,
I just haven't a heart to be found
It's not hard for me
its profound,
the sound of suffering
your soul is ours now
and I will tear it apart
Here's a toast to our orchestral
Symphony of the flesh
My swag's so ******* flawless
100 carrot diamonds,
******* love me cause I'm gorgeous
can't stag no more, fat stacks galore
embrace the force it opens doors
Is there a source, but of course -
it just lies dormant/
What's a ***** to a floor except a doormat
And you know that I'm no diplomat
It's just a fact I ******* hate those stinky ratchets
And I sharply lack tact
tell that ***** her ***** smells like Magikarp
Body language, that of Snorlax
someone once asked
why don't have an open mind
brains would spill out
if my ******* snapback
weren't so tight
Its the season to seize C's
and hallucinations be dazzlin em
don't believe your eyes son,
its only a phantasm but
Words are like playdough,
fun to play with not to eat
So clap your ******* trap and get lost to the beat
I can't be defeat
So suckle my teet
My verses are perverse
I'm high as **** words: failing
Get low
ill as **** so ******* sick,
blowed half past belligerent,
tweaking off my nasal drips,
There's serenity in debauchery -
***** I ******* bask in it
have a taste
basketcase,
I drink red bull it gives me ******* wings
"Memento quod sumus lascivio venatus"
Remember that you are playing the Game
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
_Standing with Marshal Gebbie_
No trumpet sounds.
No banner bleeds.
Just the quiet hum
of satellites watching
what we dare not name.
Power does not sleep,
it drips
from trade routes,
from whispered sanctions,
from the tremble
of a diplomat’s hand
hovering over the red phone.
We are not at war,
but we rehearse it
in algorithms,
in tariffs,
in the way maps
shrink and swell
without consent.
The empire is hungover,
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,
cloaked in plausible deniability.
And we,
the breathers between borders,
write poems
on the backs of embargoes,
sing lullabies
in contested airspace,
and pray
that silence
is not mistaken
for surrender.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 6:51 AM UTC
(there are your practice poems)
which we’ve all written
(there are your professional poems)
where we assume the accent of "the poet"
and then (there are your Real poems)
those where a woman can no longer speak to her mother
(and her mother isn’t dead yet)
and her husband stays by her side
(because their bond is that strong)
and that's how things end up
(how memories fail)
and we all get distracted
(from what really matters)
and then some child tries to make it right
(but fails, again)
like some inept diplomat
(and then gets distracted...
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations
Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884-1958) was a Turkish poet, editor, columnist and historian, as well as a politician and diplomat. Born born Ahmet Âgâh, he wrote under the pen names Agâh Kemal, Esrar, Mehmet Agâh, and Süleyman Sadi. He served as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, Portugal and Pakistan.
Sessiz Gemi (“Silent Ship”)
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
for the refugees
The time to weigh anchor has come;
a ship departing harbor slips quietly out into the unknown,
cruising noiselessly, its occupants already ghosts.
No flourished handkerchiefs acknowledge their departure;
the landlocked mourners stand nurturing their grief,
scanning the bleak horizon, their eyes blurring...
Poor souls! Desperate hearts! But this is hardly the last ship departing!
There is always more pain to unload in this sorrowful life!
The hesitations of lovers and their belovèds are futile,
for they cannot know where the vanished are bound.
Many hopes must be quenched by the distant waves,
since years must pass, and no one returns from this journey.
Full Moon
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are so lovely
the full moon just might
delight
in your rising,
as curious
and bright,
to vanquish night.
But what can a mortal man do,
dear,
but hope?
I’ll ponder your mysteries
and (hmmmm) try to
cope.
We both know
you have every right to say no.
The Music of the Snow
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This melody of a night lasting longer than a thousand years!
This music of the snow supposed to last for thousand years!
Sorrowful as the prayers of a secluded monastery,
It rises from a choir of a hundred voices!
As the organ’s harmonies resound profoundly,
I share the sufferings of Slavic grief.
Then my mind drifts far from this city, this era,
To the old records of Tanburi Cemil Bey.
Now I’m suddenly overjoyed as once again I hear,
With the ears of my heart, the purest sounds of Istanbul!
Thoughts of the snow and darkness depart me;
I keep them at bay all night with my dreams!
Translator’s notes: “Slavic grief” because Beyatli wrote this poem while in Warsaw, serving as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, in 1927. Tanburi Cemil Bey was a Turkish composer. Keywords/Tags: Beyatli, Agah, Kemal, Esrar, Turkish, translation, Turkey, silent, ship, anchor, harbor, ghosts, grief, Istanbul, moon, music, snow
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
Are you serious? You can’t make this up.
Like seriously. You can’t make this stuff up!
You are not even trying anymore!
So that’s the guy you have chosen for sure?
Audacious. Your pure arrogance endures!
A tyrannosaurus. You’re kidding me.
Surely you could be more subtle than that.
That guy? Couldn’t find a ******* diplomat?
Politician? Lying through his teeth for nothing?
Jeez Louise lemon squeeze. Right into my eyes.
Starting to feel the pain from all your lies.
No longer Mr. Freedom and bla blaaa.
More like Mr. **** off. And la la la.
La la la la la la la! Can’t hear you!
I’ll never trust anything you say or do.
*** I know you’re only looking out for you.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC
Dark polished stones line the divine walk of power
Demanding fresh blood from diplomatic feet
Where haughty arrogance meets unpretentious humility
Introduced by an arbitrating street
The loftiest of fences steadily lines the walk of power
Dishonorably straddled by a shameful few
Who never make any honest attempt to choose a side
Or contemplate existing truths
Comfort reigns securely in their warlike peace
Balancing upon those fences
Until humility overpowers and demands a stand
Leaving arrogance with no defenses
Balance fails eventually atop the fences of the walk
A diplomat’s feet must make a stand
Straddling the fence will never polish power’s stones
Come down and walk and take command
Aug 26, 2010
Aug 26, 2010 at 7:35 PM UTC
FEW POETIC REFLECTIONS ON OLD AGE
Dear Poet Friends, after a long break, I have composed a few lines as a very senior citizen and a lover of poetry. If you like the same, kindly Re-post this poem for wider circulation. Thanks and best wishes, - Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
It has been often been said that old age is that period of life,
When all bad habits are given up on doctor’s advice,
And yet you don’t feel all that good while you survive!
Yet I do try to take some solace from Robert Browning’s poem
‘Rabbi Ben Ezra’ which says;-
‘’Grow old along with me!
For the best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made.’’
Despite my grey hairs and wrinkled face,
With creaking joints and scattered aches and pains,
‘’Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress’’,
In thanks giving to the Lord and sings his praise;
As I recall WB Yeats’ ‘Sailing Byzantium’, - that
lovely poem from my college days.
As our biological clock continues to tick incessantly,
Getting older becomes compulsory.
But becoming Wiser in wrinkled years remains optional,
A choice our free will has the opportunity to make!
I recall what Agatha Christie had once said,
That an archaeologist is the best husband a woman can get,
For the older she gets, the more interested in her he
becomes;
With due respect to our women whose age is impolite
not ask.
Here I recall what the Pulitzer Prize winner Robert Frost
had once said,
That a diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman’s
birthday and not her age.
I recall the observation of Sartre the famous French philosopher
who had said,
That more sand that escapes from the hourglass of our life,
The clearer we should see through it as a blessing of time!
It is true that we live in deeds, not in years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial, - as James Bailey had said.
I finally conclude by quoting the first stanza from ‘Beautiful Old Age’ by DH Lawrence;
‘’It ought to be lovely to be old
To be full of the peace that comes of experience
And wrinkled ripe fulfilment.’’
-Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 11:04 AM UTC
If there's one thing I regret in this life
It's that I wasted my finely honed gift of telepathy
On Internet dice games
Free apps, obviously designed
To stave off pure boredom
And **** precious time
Free games, without even a small pay-off
Free games, worth every penny
Free games, not so much the skill of telepathy
Dice games, the luck of the roll
Dice games, immune to strategy of any kind
Dice games, not so much the skill of telepathy
It's times like these I rue the day
I came to the realization
The wells of telepathy had run dry
The deep ocean of telepathy sopped up
With the proud assurance that I knew exactly
When my opponent would roll or bank
I could have been a diplomat, read some leaders' minds
Or a well respected advisor, or even a CIA spy
I could have made a killing, a fortune teller's wage
A gift that kept on giving because people want to know
From where they once were coming and where they soon will go
Or something half as simple as a failsafe "yes" or "no"
I could have done a lot of things
But only one thing that I would
Kick some *** playing Farkle
And yea though I feel some regret
And yea though this decision seems drastic
Come, all ye faithful, watch me kick your ***** at Farkle
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 10:37 AM UTC
Hire me, hire me,
I have four A-levels and an Arts degree.
I have little experience or transferable skills,
but i'll gladly complain for free.
I'm educated. EH-DUE-KATE-ED! I'll scream in my head,
as I make your coffees and your teas.
My intelligence is far to great,
your menial work is just not for me.
I belong to greater things, I believe.
an author, a politician, a diplomat maybe?
or even, only if I'm lucky
this twenty-five a year scheme in marketing!
So please hire me, oh please!
I'm poor, desperate and my love-life is in decline.
The streets are no place for a graduate,
with a face, quite like mine.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:53 PM UTC
It could be the duchess
Or maybe the CEO
Or the media mogul
Who almost stole the show
Consider the brash *******
(He does look kind of shifty)
Then again there is the gambler
(Everyone calls him "Swifty")
Check out the carefree diplomat
With that fake smile but no charm
And then there's the airhead heiress
With tattoos adorning her arms
My money's on the senator
Always running, always winning
His wife seems kind of suspect too
With her endless mindless grinning
And then there is the debutante
Who flirted with the football star
And don't forget the pro golfer
Who spent so much time at the bar
But after all that guessing
Throughout the suspenseful show
Turns out the butler did it
...As if I didn't know!
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
I walk a path paved in penciled graffiti,
Where outlined music notes
Amuse my anecdotes,
I walk with break beats in my blood,
With brain waves pounding bass drums,
I got liquid
808 fingertips
And lips
Malted with crossfade grins
To spin surges of synergy
Out of bottled up battles,
Even my baby rattles
Used to shake with rhythm.
Wars
Should pause for music.
The power of harmonic symphony
Just pimping me,
Creeping up through cracked sidewalks,
Wrapping shadows around legs,
Up hips to necks
As it grabs,
Just pimping me,
A dance floor ***** with
Peace in and of mind,
In circles of 32
Note by note,
That lump of emotion
In my throat
Could choke,
With neon freedom.
Maybe it’s a pipe dream,
That we could put down the guns
And rave to the drums,
That even silencers will be silent,
And the smell of gunpowder
Will squander for an hour,
That there will be a day with no death,
A day free of neurotic nail biting mothers
Holding their breath,
That their children will walk our land again,
A day that suicide bombs
Won’t detonate,
That cries of loss and sadness
Won’t resonate,
A day that we won’t decimate,
Our own race,
The human race
Maybe it’s a pipe dream,
But that’s my pipe dream.
I’ve spanned seas to see,
That music brings harmony,
I’ve danced along
An African diplomat named Ife,
Which means love,
A Polish carpenter named Sebastian,
Which means dignity,
A Vietnamese banker named Ly,
Which means Lion,
And collectively,
We,
We're individuals,
Smiling to that same pumping beat,
That,
Breakbeat,
That brain wave pounding bass drum,
That strum laced
With a graceful hum,
Making our race numb,
There was no color,
There was no history
Because my history
Won’t dictate me,
Not that it's non-existent,
Not that I’m resistant
To believe that people hate
Because of the past,
But I understand personalities,
And believe
Everyone deserves a fair shot
At being an individual
Everyone deserves that music,
Everyone deserves to have
That path paved in penciled graffiti,
Where outlined music notes,
Amuse their anecdotes,
Everyone deserves to feel
Breakbeats in their blood,
And brain waves pounding bass drums,
Those liquid
808 fingertips
And lips
Malted with crossfade grins
That spin surges of synergy,
Everyone deserves what we have to offer,
Everyone deserves,
To dance to their own breakbeat
Of peace
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 9:40 PM UTC
.
Wine, enchilada and pickle sauce,
corks and safeties,
just like The Penguin In *******
in Ronnie and Kenny's shed.
The Idiot ******* Son
sits eating the deadly Yellow Snow,
whilst Joe hums Zombie Woof
at the Poodle in his Garage.
Dinah-Moe Humm finally gets off;
in the Dangerous Kitchen,
with the Muffin Man's ***** Love,
and the Illinois Enema Bandit.
The Fine Girl and the Latex Solar Beef
bathed in The Blue Light,
shout 'Pick Me, I'm Clean',
along Inca Roads, to Find Her Finer.
Cosmik Debris exclaims Zoot Allures!
From the fat, floating, maroonish Sofa
because the Bow Tie Daddy
sings Nasal Retentive Calliope Music.
Yo Mama! there's the Disco Boy
who gets in More Trouble Every Day,
so The Torture Never Stops,
with Damp Ankles, Peaches & Regalia.
Sam With The Showing Scalp Flat Top
dances with Camarillo Brillo upstairs,
catching Stink-Foot once again,
like In France from the Valley Girl.
And so the Watermelon In Easter Hay
rides off with the Duke Of Prunes
to the Carolina ******** Ecstasy,
visiting Billy The Mountain, and Montana.
© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
Frank Zappa
(21st December 1940 - 4th December 1993).
Musician, Diplomat and Lyricist.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
antagonistically I am alive
Languish is a two laned road
Misogyny be my name and my role
Pride be my form
The sins of my brothers and my sisters
they be here no more
When my blood rises from the dead
Ebonics will overcome phonics And our lives will be spared
I am done playing politics
done being your diplomat
if you want the olive branch go get it yourself
I am done acquiescing to your decisions and demands
I am prepared to throw up my hands
All I want is to be left alone with my kin
All I want is for my diction to not define who I am
All I want is for peace not to be left a dream
We as a whole are taught that dreams can become reality
That america is a country created and shaped by our thoughts
Yet our reality is becoming nothing more than a nightmare
Someone tell me who thought of this?
How can we turn our reality from the nightmare it has become into our dreams
let us be honest it was never a place for my people
But since we are here can we not claw each others throats out and get back to the problem at hand?
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC
Jah bleseth the lonely traveler
But shall take no pity on the restless right hand of her ladyship Elizabeth DuPont.
For neither the black bird or orangutan can tame the mighty chalice that has watered the wells for many half moon
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC
I speak to you now, former wife, another time, another place
I don’t know where you are, where you’ve been these forty years
But in that year, that sultry, passioned summer in Japan
twelve months past exchanging wedding bands,
we rode the train in to Tokyo every day
from Nerimaku at the city’s edge,
apartment on that narrow street, floor two, and no A.C.
only a floor fan to blow the steamy air, but
the *** was great, the sleeping not so much
and you in your green forties style patterned dress, mid-length
would often melt my heart,
Remember, if you hear me, that as time to come home neared
we were favored by an Imperial Palace gardens private tour
from a friendly diplomat, how we made the connection I forget
unless you, my dark-eyed twenty four, might remember
I’m not likely to find out, and does it matter?
He proudly showed us small silver waterfalls
catch light over well- placed rocks, the full ferns lush,
and roses and lavender the best of what was left
of manicured flowers, I held your hand,
in this seeming almost the perfect ending
To six weeks of endless interviewing, I was so glad to have you there,
law and grad student couple walking with our grey haired friend,
an austral early evening breeze brought kind relief,
the blessing that can come with late August’s setting sun,
our host pointed to tiny flecks of red and yellow
almost imperceptible on the vast sweet-gums we passed
observing that the Japanese revered the sight-- this time of year
as if anticipation of the coming season were sweeter than the fall itself,
And I have never forgotten that revelation
And I have never forgotten the fleeting smile in your brown eyes
in that long green moment of the western sky.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
So I went
down the rabbit hole
thinking I was following you, my love
They would have said
it was Mad
that's why I didn't tell anyone
that the living room table & house
was divided into different countries
America at the helm
Germany, Britain and Russia
as I stood in my chequered coat
for days on end, crying
believing people thought I was Stalin
or else, a diplomat
about to be killed
& M&S; tea, the package
being red & black
made me think of communism
( red) & fascism ( black)
& though being neither
I wanted to promptly
order my mother
to spread it amongst the people
then realized the irony of this
& refrained
instead, asking her
why she was sending signals
to the neighbors
by putting the kettle on
whilst praying for all the believers
in and of True Love
True Love,
salvation & fury
debased by them
on purpose, I thought
' Erotomaniac'
what?
Simply for wanting
to have hope?
Believing in romance?
And you,
who rejected me
you'll never know Wonderland
all you saw was a rabbit hole,
darkness & dirt
& it's true, it all just turned into barbed wire
& Angels singing, locked up
little pills at bedtime
fear, my only crime
& yet for a while before that
the world shone
& I don't know how to talk about that
it's just that I thought
every person I met
would lead me to your door
that all the songs in the world
were sung for me
& that all your poetry
was a declaration of love
just waiting to happen
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
All of the shacks and houses and double
fronted mansions
lie in the vicinity
of a town no-one’s really
heard of which in turn lies
there because of the shacks and houses
and double fronted mansions.
Neither would exist without the other
and nothing would happen without them,
the people are insignificant... there’s no politician
no diplomat or embassy worker here,
there’s no world leading bio-chemist or
any line of royalty behind the slats of wood
or the red brick and bay window fronts.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
The Gansevoort Hotel is where he chose to meet.
I followed the travel directions which he texted and I showed up on time.
I was led into the suite and waited an hour; the diplomat was late.
I was forewarned that in the event that he did not appear, that I was to stay put, enjoy the room for the night, all services and non-services or room charges would be handled at his end, privately, of course.
This is not the norm for me so please don't get it wrong!
It was nothing more than a business transaction behind closed doors, between two consenting adults.
But, as it turned out, I fell asleep, there was no ******** I devoured my breakfast the following morning, still got paid and hopped on a Bronx-bound train, home.
That was the easiest soldi I have ever made.
I never heard from the diplomat again.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Like a holiday in a person
The ultimate diplomat
Gilded with tweed
Won the Euclid and the Fermat
Child prodigy
And a perfect gentleman
A perfect gentleman
You were Atlantis
when I first met you
I was so terrified
that I couldn't impress you
You were so perfect
So beautiful
You smelled like flowers
Had to know what the smell was
What flower?
Where are you from?
What are you? Who are you?
A breath of fresh air?
An angel, a fairy?
A devil, a liar?
You packed up your Viper's tongue
Your lyre
Your childish analogies
It seems you have a taste for
skinny pale intellectuals
with unusual but not improbable hair colours
And now you're in Florence
Did I scare you away?
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC
How can I put into few words
What we think of her?
How can I say in just a few lines
How proud she has made us, so many times?
She is just a woman, but so much more
A figure head
Ambassador
Diplomat
Sovereign bold
And like a sovereign
Worth much more
Than her weight in gold
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
Tell me
Frog stories
Hop along
Boring saviour.
I worship
Something less than your greed
**** a life of envy
Leave me to my hole
Low enemies of the conscious state.
Hop hop
I'm a wall to you, but
Can walls be leapt around when
Detached stakes build higher?
Drunk wishes form promises
Stamp letters,
But shuffle, laughing diplomat,
Let me be all you daren't to.
I want home
I want living
In a female goal
But studies tie my hands
Tell me I deserve this.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
When your asked to the nastiest ball
And all you want to do is fall
Where mother can't help you out
And your soul heavy like a stout
Take to the streets which are dreary n' beat
Take the road un-wandered n' ponder
What you'd be like without you and me
To help this worries is to make me feel sorry
For' the afternoon we spent together was meant
To hold up for an hours worth of eternity
I mentioned that letter you sent the other day
To a friend that hadn't seen in a thousand years
We spoke about the joke you read in some book
And giggled the night off feeling like crooks
Our heads are heavy with the weight of this world
My feet are soggy from this world's bitter game
All this repetition is starting to get the better of me
The mind is struggling to get the body to believe
Now when I get around to start loving again
And I can raise my head without much restrain
Take my case as that lily blue flower vase
Shines in the morning sun light and hits your face
We could walk for hours as these drunken cowards
Wash away their souls for the Devil has foretold
But me no better with no job just a feather
A lick for the rest of time but don't nickel and dime
Born again born anew born to see the frothing croon
Waits waited but drank too much
His fingers ain't broken he's just getting some lunch
These rattling rips come from a place not of time
This brain ain't mine and it ain't that much fun
A prisoner of the classroom a prisoner in full bloom
Turn to terror and you'll burn just like the bun
Bout round this time people roam in from nowhere n' bored
Heart with her is a thing shared to the nearest core
Ask me the name of a foreign diplomat that knows his math
And I'll ask you to leave with your hat gripped to your back
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 5:23 PM UTC
People are walking down the street,
during the final apocalypse ,
radios on their big feet,
the jails are empty and all stripped,
and Micheal Moore might call it,
republicans old warship.
It's all our fault we built a world on ideas of ownership.
As the world sat there dying,
the remorseful dragon was bled,
and the leaches are all crying,
their brothers are all dead,
and I know though my silver spoon shines,
in the moonlight it turns to lead,
I sat there on the mountaintop and watched tom thumb break his leg.
The popular trend is collapsing,
the pirates are heroes too,
the tree now is alive and clapping,
what were once lies are now all true,
but ages pass and still we know ,
that every day is just a clue,
I ran across the border along with Napoleons entire crew.
The glass coffin it has a leak,
snow white is looking for love,
but all that people want is a peak,
and all she gets is mud,
behind her sunken eyes we can see,
a dam that will soon flood,
she kept it hidden long enough to water every shrub.
Everyone you knew has been abandoned,
They didn't last long on their own,
the prizes they always branded,
are gone its like they never were owned,
and even when the memory returns,
they'll just be a name on a stone.
And the people worth more than others are now just dirt and dirt alone.
Gandhi was walking his rat,
and he handed him a flower,
he said there you go Mr. diplomat,
but don't get drunk with the power,
and even with all of the things he yelled ,
the rat jumped off of the tower.
And we are now left to determine what to do in our last hour.
The ****** was again, alone,
with the memories of his father,
who was famous for many different tones,
he played while on his swather,
and he knows deep down he killed his pa,
there no excuse for hes a doctor,
and know he has to be punished so he kidnapped his own toddler.
The sideshows are all empty,
the freaks have all gone home,
the first to die are the the yetis,
the first to live are made from foam,
we remember this but forget the rest,
if we must we will build catacombs,
but be careful if you don't comply with them they'll take you up into their domes.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 12:36 AM UTC