The sun wept for the moon,
but the moon did all but try.
And come every noon,
the sun would die.

Her light burning out,
like a candle.
but the moon would glout,
for him to mishandle
such a beauty was a sight
for sore eyes.

The clouds would cover her light
but her cries,
could never be heard above her madness.
Her face contorted,
her eyes pools of vastness.

/when y'ah know that rhythm guitar, is best envisioned by synch. with a bass guitar. have your american-english acronyms.... have it! feed; feed off of it! feed off of my prefix adjustments!/

look busy,
                          jesus
              is coming.
i.e.
martim luther
                in en-glout;
'aving a take on
                sally;
purr fiddle
                  quest:
char,
reminder of
                 Upminster.