Hopefully, you’ve found some heaven,
on this late date weve leven.
for if bliss avoids your every whim,
evades your grip lackings a grin.
Something will arrive,
God must be pleased.
He will provide,
he will protect,
killing you gently,
every time you resist.
And eye for an eye,
written by man.
Dont call it a book,
Just a power distorted fan.
Its a fad,
its a con.
Yet mark my words,
The show must go on.
sored or soared.
What do you take me for,
someone who’s bored?
Your quadraphonic homophones,
your dillying dallying monotones.
Your lispings, sissing, metaphores,
your flapping, rasping gasps for applause.
Yet contained within all those feathers and pearls,
flumoxing around for some understanding and jewels.
Impressing ourselves that we’ve made something,
So others wont recognise our innate bluthering.