Nostalgie de l'ecole

I well remember Mr. Naughton
Whose life I daily yearned to shorten
He who drove us to the edge
Flailing with his pitching wedge -
Or it might have been a flashy
Royal & Ancient wooden mashie -
Niblick, driver, I don't care
As long as I was never where
I could be slashed with shaft or hosel
On buttocks, ribs or even schnozzle.
I longed to see him in the gutter
Impaled upon a Ping-type putter -
In fact I'd even go so far
As deem that outcome "even par."

I can hear our thoughts,
the moment that we scream
                      in our mind...
it is ecstasy upon our palate of
delirium you do not venture
outwards but you are comatose
within the vessels of our lucidity.

But what happens when a wall is
                  seized and removed
with the delicate motions of within.
        motionless hands vacate the
conclusion that all are safe within.

Can you apprehend the vocalization
of our own whispers. Malevolent
perceiving doesn't come from the
exterior of reflection,
                       it was always there within

"Can you hear the scratches?
                            "That's ourselves trying to escape from within,

Shhhhh.... little thoughts your within the disillusion of my
speculation, were all trying to escape this home of creaking
reflections. Look there is a paper mashie construct of our
freedom but I threw a match on it, now look at them all burn.