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Edited by Martin Septim:
3/22/2014 10:53:51 PM
3
To be a poet
To mould the clay of words
Into a form rarely seen by others
Is a poet's job
To say what can't be said
To spill the thousand thoughts inside their head
And to paint with them
As Picasso they sit
With brushes dancing upon the easel
Of a clear night sky
Ready they are to paint
The beautiful clouds that do all but taint
The blackness they pass
And as the clouds fade off
Into the night like ships on the ocean
So the poet stills
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3 RepliesWith a cock in each hand the bard dances, Forming rhyming words into art as he prances. The king of the brown rings, the gaseous masses, Of his name they sing whilst dripping white molasses. The bard, the bard of the offtopic section, The master, the caster of the throbbing erection, To whom will your sultry words reach, To whom will you erotically teach, Sitting upon your throne of crusty old condoms and socks, The way, the will, of the bards handling of cocks.
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2 Replies
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2 Replies[b] [/b]
