the old grey lady in white
cupped are her quivering hands
in borrowed robes she comes
her forsaken burns succumbed.
those amber filled eyes rotten
underneath,of empathy forgotten.
she looks to hear the drumming bell
she sleeps for an hour of peace
but those consumed rays just gaze at hell
just too noisy is the breeze.....
the vulgar dust of a rotten morn,
between the rusted voice of man
the partisan yammers its early horn
his choking sermon did began.
the betel leaves did tear away
beneath his turnished tongue
tenacious malign reign in grace
how naive indeed is virtuous man...
she lives no more than in her sleep
in nothing but the barking streets
ostricized by given grace
and wisdom owned my living men.
they drag their sons if he goes near
from her eroded self full of wear.
walks past 14th street,tells him be
while he himself sneaking past
empties his own cultured self,
on other man's painted walls...
oh virtuous wisdom,thy righteous self
i beseech thee,for humanity's help
baptize us with judgement yours
so every vivacious self could cure
all of society's chronic disease
dispatch the tramps, laud thy avarice..