the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

The Table of Rounds

An overlapping night
Rapping in second English,
Royalty abound in every suit.
Witches cast their spell
So we're possessed by their brew,
In possession of their brew.
It drips on our lapels,
But we're compelled to expel
The demon's blues,
Brought on by no-bed reds
And cloudy-day grays.
The condition for transition
Is intoxication or exhaustion,
It is picking your poison to flush out your toxins.

No comments: