Sunday, April 12, 2009
Brought to You by the Letter "S"
I'm eeking out a sibilant subsistence
A transient I am
Between scepter and sepulchre
The spectre-like hissing
Swirls mid the blissing
The one sounding sweet
With scents of freshly washed feet,
The other, sour, but what power!
I'm stuck twixt the quick and the dead.
I much prefer rock
I wish, Oh! how I wish,
I'd learned to roll my "R"s.