Lounging in the Tavern out of Time
Oh how the truth doth sting
So much of which to blur one’s sight
Seething toxic rage and lashing out
Against all the poetic words I write
Blindly into darkness, the curses you fling
Sanity that one could truly doubt
So many guises within a crowd
Theatrics of deep love, sadness and hate
Swaying the audience’s trust from doubt
And all the doubters you shall later berate
Your wrathful screeching, now ever so loud
For whoever knows what you are about
Banning what the poet writes
Ill powers that you have to flaunt
Of the many masks that you wear
The poet writes of nothing you want
Offering no attention on those lonely nights
Without such you sink into despair
A high standing voice of the law
Never looking below, when you talk down
Naught but a slave to what you serve
A pleasant mask covering a painful frown
Scratching your feathered ass with a painted claw
You fret much over lost youthful curve
Your beauty fades in growing old
Becoming almost too fat and ungainly to fly
Seemingly adoring courtiers are there for you
Sympathy offered as you feign a sad cry
Warm to the touch, but with a heart so cold
It would freeze the dawn’s sweet dew
