Description
Like ink to a paper so does a word to the brain
On the face it draws its temper and on the back lays its stain
Lamentation is a hefty hamper only to those who can’t bear the pain
When the whim unleashes its thunder there is no time for restrain
Then set the quill for plunder and the hand to be morally slain
Between the lines lurks the gender what is left is meant to be plain
Avis
Il n’y a pas encore d’avis.