I'll rise Take the bait And let fate Make it's mate In my traits That rate Most high You repeat Your deceit Making meat Out of boiled Shoe leather and Lye I've tried To be nice Merciful, Concise But the time Sorry friend is nigh To declare With words Spare This sordid Affair Is closed And the thread is mine.
You reek of spoiled wine and petty crime. Behold -- as my rhymes turn on a dime. Consider this a portent, a sign of the times; doomed in scripts angelic sublime...the last post is actually mine.