I Don't Do Open Mics

Sadistic freedoms if divinity is lost and pawned to the seas,

Prophetic imams religiously respawn in the trees,

Pacific regents with salinity upon it in sieves,

Submissive seasons in stability are gone in the breeze.

 

Silos blued as broken pipes if the serpentine stone bleeds it as bloody,

I don’t do open mics, and I certainly won’t read this for money,

Why won’t you soak in the rhymes if the burgeoning flow seasons the country?

I know you’re as cold as nights in the early morn east and sunny.

 

Bishops stuck in hoods as the choice is felt like trust or wit blind as love,

Is this good enough for you boys and gals, and does this spit rhyme enough?

Pissing drunk in lust for then Freud and Sal in a crock of shit so sign them up,

Penance took the glove and the poisoned nail to thrust it inside the gut.

 

Reigning of the voices and the titans with their might,

Straining all our choices with the violence of the fight,

Praising then the coitus when then frightened at the sight,

Trading for some oysters with a knife bent on the side,

Sailing then to Troy if the righteous are the right,

Praying they avoid us in the silence of the night!

◄ Why the Skies Fell Cold

Idle Hands Occupy ►

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