"riseborough" poems
David, David Riseborough,
They hunt for his sorrow,
For all the things that he borrows.
David, David Riseborough,
They say his mind is too shallow,
That he hides his secrets under his pillow.
David, David Riseborough,
The apple he swallows,
Turns him into a crow.
David, David Riseborough,
He kills the black widow,
With his black elbow.
He is David, David Riseborough.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC