Living a life on the ocean blue,
when you battern down the hatches  and send out the troops,
to defend all land from unfortunate bliss,
which in not one among us could we hope to resist,
the web of wicked, wicker delights,
which they weave through the gaps of your prison cell bars,
'till nothing can be heard but a soft, whimpered cry,
and the sound of the ocean waving goodbye.

A fallen rose, not picked but kicked,
trampled on by hoofs and sticks,
left to mush-up by its own,
left to dry up in the sun,
there was a moment in a space of time,
when life had flourished, florally fine,
the petals wavered in the breeze,
silk adornments touched by the screen,
but now I see, as so does all,
the stem is split and petals fall,
down and down until it stops,
winking at the mud and rocks.

What say you?
Could you care for a dabble?
On the saddle of the camel,
which you swapped for the wagon.
One swift fall!
and you stagger to the chapel,
pleading with the parish to forgive you for your greed-
"I needed it", "I couldn't live without my cake and eating it",
for what is life if life is lived,
without just one more.

I have been drunk for the last two weeks,
the hangover has not yet sprung on the scene,
on what I was drunk I am appropriately unsure,
I was far to drunk to acknowledge my thoughts,
of what I remember I'll tell you in time...............
fifteen short days ago I sat in recline,
in tune with the hum of the pacifists gun,
in time with the bullets that shot through the sun,
entwined with the echoes which force me to run,
I thought to myself: "we got to get drunk!"

There's a reason to sing,
the birds do exclaim,
flapping their wings,
to be part of the game,
A chorus will sound,
as they enter the ring,
tie-ing the bounds,
with melodic string,
wrapped up in verses,
and bridging the ponds,
they open their purses,
and fill them with songs.