He crept around . . .

He crept about babbling,
a traitor with a whipped tongue.

One who won't observe death.

So alleviate my sweet anger,
     share money, sculpt.
An innocent experiment was felt.

Who chooses, doesn't impress.

Hence decay
     snapped her from that trotting fiend,

a vile fellow around pure life.

Beneath empty music,

a hollow crowd strung,

 . . . His garb must stink.

with Bianca Moscatelli,  October 3, 2007, 24, 25, 26

The Muse Poems:

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