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Locksley Hall

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn:
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn.

'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts,
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time;

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed;
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed:

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see;
Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.--

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove;
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young,
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung.

And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me,
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee."

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light,
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night.

And she turn'd--her ***** shaken with a sudden storm of sighs--
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes--

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong";
Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long."

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands;
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring,
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring.

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships,
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more!
O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore!

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue!

Is it well to wish thee happy?--having known me--to decline
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine!

Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay.

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not they are glazed with wine.
Go to him, it is thy duty, kiss him, take his hand in thine.

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought:
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought.

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand--
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand!

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace,
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule!
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool!

Well--'t is well that I should bluster!--Hadst thou less unworthy proved--
Would to God--for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved.

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit?
I will pluck it from my *****, tho' my heart be at the root.

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home.

Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind?
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind?

I remember one that perish'd; sweetly did she speak and move;
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love.

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore?
No--she never loved me truly; love is love for evermore.

Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings,
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof,
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall,
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall.

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep,
To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep.

Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years,
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears;

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain.
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again.

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry.
'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry.

Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival brings thee rest.
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast.

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due.
Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two.

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part,
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

"They were dangerous guides the feelings--she herself was not exempt--
Truly, she herself had suffer'd"--Perish in thy self-contempt!

Overlive it--lower yet--be happy! wherefore should I care?
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair.

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these?
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys.

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow.
I have but an angry fancy; what is that which I should do?

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground,
When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound.

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels,
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels.

Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page.
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age!

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife,
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life;

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield,
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field,

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn,
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn;

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then,
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men:

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new:
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do:

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,
Pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales;

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm,
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm;

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry,
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye;

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint:
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point:

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher,
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire.

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs,
And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns.

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys,
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's?

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore,
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast,
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest.

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn,
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn:

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string?
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing.

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain--
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain:

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine,
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine--

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat;

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd,--
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward.

Or to burst all links of habit--there to wander far away,
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day.

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies,
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise.

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag,
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag;

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree--
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea.

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind,
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind.

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space;
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run,
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun;

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks,
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books--

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild,
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child.

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains,
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains!

Mated with a squalid savage--what to me were sun or clime?
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time--

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one,
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon!

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range,
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day;
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun:
Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun.

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set.
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet.

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall!
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall.

Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt,
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt.

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow;
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.
Beauties, have ye seen this toy,
Called Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blind;
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say?
He is Venus' runaway.

She that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss,
How or where herself would wish:
But who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiss, and another.

He hath marks about him plenty:
You shall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire,
And his breath a flame entire,
That, being shot like lightning in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

At his sight, the sun hath turned,
Neptune in the waters burned;
Hell hath felt a greater heat;
Jove himself forsook his seat:
From the centre to the sky,
Are his trophies reared high.

Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
He will leap from lip to lip,
Over liver, lights, and heart,
But not stay in any part;
But if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himself in kisses.

He doth bear a golden bow,
And a quiver, hanging low,
Full of arrows, that outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.

Still the fairest are his fuel.
When his days are to be cruel,
Lovers' hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest blood:
Naught but wounds his hands doth season,
And he hates none like to Reason.

Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.
All his practice is deceit;
Every gift it is a bait;

Not a kiss but poison bears;
And most treason in his tears.

Idle minutes are his reign;
Then, the straggler makes his gain
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think them joys:
'Tis the ambition of the elf
To have all childish as himself.

If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him;
Since you hear his falser play,
And that he's Venus' runaway.
neth jones May 2021
..............there’s such a clamour
         so much choring
    memory thread
I sit
armchair
rocking head
receiver of motion
    bleaker of putty trauma
                creator of mammary craving

.....best take up knitting or wood carving

the fortress of thought
(in strict connivance with a bewildered host)
compiles the 'person idea'
protects the fragile calculator
               from biting at its own exposed
                  and useless self mating psychology
               from glutting on its own tail 
                   and merry going mad
                        in a tune of hoops...

..stammering to achieve valuation

for our decent management
projector
may you continue operations falser still
defeating our own polygraphs and making fools of our internal courtrooms

i sit on this chair
things go still
thoughts occur elsewhere
am i left to not be ?....................
[no rocking horse
conveyer belt
tank tread
rock rearward and forth
the thinker and the head]
The nightmare is always where I
least expect it to be,
haunting,
following me through the
shady streets.
I catch it at times in the eyes that meet mine
which I know are my own, or in
the tone of a voice that I hear and here is
the matter,no matter how deep I hide, that
tone of a voice follows me down inside,
you'd think I'd expect it,
but no,
which just goes to show how I fool myself into
a falser sense of security.
The nightmare always follows me.
I always expect that.
Today shall be a talking day
a walking day
and I shall walk and talk and say things
to myself and maybe others too
and if I do
it may make this day seem okay.

At times the rhymes that stymie me
those unreleased
I will set free to walk and talk along with me
another piece of poetry.

Others look and wonder why this man that mouths words passes by
with spittle dripping from his lips and tips of cigarettes unlit
just waiting for a light to rip into his eyes and slip a match into his hands which make the shuffling of the pack
another cigarette and back to walking
talking
stalking through the rush hour crowds which pass like clouds around my feet
and will I ever find a seat
to sit?
unlit again.
'Hey mister have you got a light and if so might you give some substance to the nicotine'
and I,unseen
the haunted of the haunting dream
lit,unlit and barely time to clean or clear and my oh my oh dear
the heavens open up and fill my begging bowl which in actuality is a Starbucks cup which in the breaking makes a better place to put my shamefaced
unlaced misery.

A cup another cup of steaming tea
sweet,delicious and given to me by a sweeter looking lady who maybe felt a little pity,sadness too
but who am I to know what goes on in the minds of those that throw this sausage dog a bone?

I howl and I can howl and how I bark
but not when I am in the park sat by the swans and ducks and in being somewhat of a lucky man
which I most assuredly feel is what I am
feed the wildlife with stale bread and talk the words that flow in seasons round my head.
I'm sure these birds appreciate my soft spoke words but they don't tell me so, and so I go into another walk and talk
with skateboarders,
talking tall orders as they whizz and skid along the concrete tracks
on which the local councils with their tightened schedules close their eyes and turn their backs.
And back to City
unmade streets
leaking drains and leaking brains that leak through walls and wall street halls and madness ramparts
broken and rebroken hearts
false and even falser starts until it falls apart.
The falling I can understand
another matchstick in my hand and one more cup of tea
I've had enough of lunacy and lunatics
I shall go home to egg and chips
retire and
sat by the fire will watch the flames that flame out names and burn the corners of those pictures that I carry on the inside
another fireside
an ash grey day
a walking,talking time today
tomorrow
who knows?
Jamie L Cantore Nov 2014
Oh, in pains is my heart forsaken!
   as chastened use has chased away
what Love's abundance canst provide;
      and whichever path she may have upon
advanced or taken, I must hastened choose
                     to search this whole world imagined,
both far and wide.

Ah, how an eminence does make the maiden
youth where ev'ry other breath in innocence sets her
chest to fall, to rise; and now I speak just to thee in truth,
in case thou hasn't heard me hence, or believed me true.

Do cease the actions of mischievous type, as roguery isn't
worth the childish enterprise: rather to me extend thy hand, impassioned, as I to my goddess rise!

Allow me to enter, kiss thee upon that
hand as then, then when I would always
askance grin -ere I'm reduced to inanition
in your absence on this night, such as I have
often chanced to be when first astray in the
variable contrast of ineffectual obscurity.

In my thoughts a resident thou art, my fantasy
perceived as a great charmer, a beauty to beseech
-one whose constant sufferers are the broken heart,
it's action ceased within those past suitors which have
only been half-tutored in that ancient art, which to you
I did teach: but the unbelievers naked eye wilt see nothing
of your radiant form, which I defend, set truly apart!

Yet ye thru usury harm this poor man, as you hurriedly
dart out after I come in; in and out of my reality, on this
you are bent, one that the real world called strangely
marked, a world forlorn that fears that which it doesn't
understand, (or envies.)

Do you, mine maiden, not see things as they were; or in
your leave of absence comprehend that the complex of
elements that reasons hath made thee-as God did make
the universe in an ambiguous flight of fancy-where thru
convictions solely are such dimensions and reflections given
worth?

You are all that torments my fiery soul cruelly, so cruelly,
again and again,
as you do as e'er alter my Heaven, and make falser my Earth!
The thought I threw into this snow shall stir
The thought and dream so wedded to
The thought arose, "My cross I cannot bear.
The thought behind I strove to join
The thought beneath so slight a film
The thought bred strength. I slowly drew my arms
The thought dashed. It recoiled, as, with the gift,
The thought divine within them till it blossomed into stone
The thought grew frightful, 't was so wildly dear! 40
The thought grew stronger with my growing days,
The thought has been embodied to our years.
The thought has just occurred to me
The thought has melted, vanished into night;
The thought in crimson dyed his cheek,
The thought in the brain of that weak
The thought is falser far.
The thought is not pleasant, yet, what we can't cure,
The thought is quiet as a flake, --
The thought it whispers to thine ear!
The thought makes me nervous. I vow and declare.
The thought not pleasureless of suffer'd pains
The thought o' Mary Morison.
The thought of Brutus[57]--for his was not there!
The thought of England, fresh beneath the rain,
The thought of God is like the tree
The thought of God will rouse the heart
The thought of God, the thought of thee,
The thought of God, the thought of thee, 224.
The thought of Love Immortal blends
The thought of Rabicane detained the knight.
The thought of Thy immensity;
The thought of a shut gate of Paradise,
The thought of an alien race,
The thought of another?"
The thought of beauty gone too swiftly by.
The thought of birds,
The thought of both: "Yon crescent see!
The thought of death -- approach he fast or slow --
The thought of death alone, the fear destroys.
The thought of death being always imminent,
The thought of death can't enter for the throng?
The thought of death shall, like a god, inspire.
The thought of death sits easy on the man
The thought of death, sole victor of its dread!
The thought of death, which reason, too supine,
The thought of death? That thought is the machine,
The thought of dinners good
The thought of having lost the precious ring;
The thought of heaven's great King afar
The thought of her distress, her lips to kiss,
The thought of her doth heau'nly rage inspire,
The thought of her was like a flash of light
The thought of her was like a flash of light,
The thought of her, exposed to shame and pain,
The thought of her, who once did sing
The thought of him away.
The thought of him who has left me
The thought of holding man to his account,
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
The thought of it made mother cry,
The thought of it shall wake:
The thought of life that ne'er shall cease
The thought of long-past actions sanctifies
The thought of my shortcomings in this life
The thought of never-ending rest!
The thought of old, dear things is in thine eyes,
The thought of one great, universal heart,
The thought of one whose smiling lips up-curled,
The thought of one, now gone from us,--
The thought of our loved ones at home in the West--
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
The thought of parting shall not lie
The thought of six-and-eightpence
The thought of some new order and the lust of change.
The thought of some true friend may bless,
The thought of spiritual transmigration
The thought of that imperial rite
The thought of that one morning. And her being
The thought of that strange tale divine,
The thought of the Quaker is living still,
The thought of the woman (that sweet, subtle power
The thought of the horror he felt, beguiles
The thought of the swiftest lifts and blesses?
The thought of thee a moment from my soul.
The thought of thee all sorrow calms;
The thought of thee began.
The thought of thee can make all turmoil cease;
The thought of thee is home!
The thought of thee is mightier far
The thought of thee shall tremble there
The thought of thee, above, below,
The thought of thee--and in the blue Heaven's height,
The thought of thee--and in the blue heaven's height,
The thought of their enraptured gaze
The thought of this begets that brave disdain
The thought of this bids me go on
The thought of thousands, while thy noble heart
The thought of thy kiss, which awakens
The thought of vengeance on me, never quite
The thought of violets meant florists' shops,
Ella Catherine Mar 2014
There will come a time when we will be gone,
all of us
from this place.
We will take planes and buses and trains,
We will pack up our rooms and kiss mothers goodbye,
fathers clap our shoulders
and look us in the eye, tell us to stay out of trouble.
We will never be together, all of us, again,
in the same way, for we're always changing.
You know how people are.
-
This is how I can miss you.
This is why, though you are sitting with me now,
I feel the particular ache of your loss -
the knowledge that I will go months, years,
without hearing your voice.
And in a way, it is like someone has died -
like you have died, like I have died.
I know my memories will live on hideously,
growing greater and falser with time,
filling spaces and gaps in me
that you never really got to fill.
And yes, I will live on. But there will always be something:
a scratch on my wrist
a ghost on my neck
a deep, trembling silence.
-
If you asked me about graduation, this is what I’d say:
I am a river, you are the sea, and I will keep running to you,
even though the sea is chock full of water,
even though one river won't make much of a difference, anyway.
Evelyn Robinson Jan 2018
Reduced to a single point
Within and without I know,
I am but one single speck.
I feel it now in my mind;
My thinking soul.

Not in conventional terms but,
Let my thinking heart guide thee
In understanding me.

Nothing forms
Like air let loose.
We drift, as infinitismal nothings,
Following from within like a painter's brush into reality-
Our own canvas are we.

Superceded by phantoms of ghosts
Ethereal blurs take their geometry,
Exist within A euclidity.

We weave ourselves in the hairs of our god's
Nebulous strands dreaming outwards from the thinking hearts,
The hearts that make us but we form-
This integration of it into nothing
Of nothing... to something.

Spontaneously alive
Digital sparks that programmed their own world's
Existing within limits self imposed.

We perceive from internals to externals
But accepting truths built falsely
They hold, like all Straw houses crumbling and shrinking,
Till they fade inwards, collapsing into reality the painters brush falters.
It cannot go on, it cannot paint finer than its hairs, only grander, out, bigger, falser.

Our eternity is merely a fraction of our own
It extends infinitely we cannot go...
With it.

Within these truths I find myself
With these fundamentals I paint myself into the world
With these dreamlike strands of hair I weave myself.
Into the fabric of your mind, you are part of this now!
You always were, and never will be.
Inspired by existential musings and quantum mechanics
Jack P May 2018
this is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
not with a bang but with a

high price of admission, that being the innate circumstances wherein his ego germinates and grows into two things at the same time: externally pleasant and internally grotesque.

this is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
not with a bang but with a

long stretch of beach lined with hospital beds, pyres alight to the God of False Flags and Falser Hope, long speeches and poor teachers getting too close to the water.

this is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
not with a bang but with a

difference of opinion - the trickle-down economics of not giving a **** about anyone except one's inner sanctum, from the unrepresented in their little mud huts, to the shadow skulls with buzzing sinuses; Everything, Performing the Dance of the Hearse Driver.

this is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
not with a bang but with a

whimper, courtesy of yours truly
don't mention the war and all its nauseating irony, don't mention irony and all its nauseating truths, don't mention me and all my dumb words
Mansi Mar 2018
You haven't seen how much poison is there in the world so wide,
People who have it just want to shove you aside.

They want to take the credit for all that you have done,
They'll just sit and make you leap at the Sun.
Didn't I say?
They want to take the credit for all that you have done.

Such snakes slither into your life like a caring friend,
They act perfect, like a true friend is,
They'll impress you, they'll make sure you're following the latest trend,
But it's not until you hit the rocky road, you hear a hiss.

Yes. They show their true self.

They'll bake rumors and spread them far and wide,
They'll chuck muck over you 'til you cry,
Then on your misery, they'll have jolly ride,
They'll never let the pool of your misery dry.

I've seen such a poison viper in my life. Thus, here I stand narrating my plight.
When she came, her manners pleased my sight.

I befriended her.

"What happened then?" You may ask.
Let me tell you.

When she showed her true self, it was like someone hit me with a knife.
Such an over-dramatic and dominating person I'd never seen in my life.

She spread rumors far and wide,
On herself, she takes a lot of pride.

Oh! Those rumors were falser than the word false,
They killed my reputation dead,
And cut all the friendly calls,
I was so depressed, my mind was hanging by a mere thread.
*
She hasn't changed much today,
We''ll never be true friends any day.

I warn you all.

Before you befriend someone, make sure that they are not the anacondas,
They will act friendly in the beginning but observe closely, you will see the changing hue.
Be alert, it won't take them long to forget what real friendship bond is,
Such snakes can never be friends who are true.
Inspired by a real anaconda who slithered into my life.

— The End —