A propagation of the truth will leave the scholarly in vagueness
As to why a damsel in her 21st century still feels distress
Yes I’m tired of writing proper English
To explain to you damsels how life tingles
I mean, I owe know thing nothing
Yet, today I sit, turning in this widening gyre
Where I, the falcon, refuse to hear the falconer
Turning and falling…
A conformist? No, a reformist – a renegade maybe?
Yet this story must be told, anarchy must be loose upon mankind
My pal whispered two me just the other day
Saying, he had rich a point of disdain
He recalls the days of old
When life was as simple as a cold
Chale Kwame, man is tired!
The girl is but a nuisance, I cried trying…
Things had fallen apart for Yaw
His center couldn’t hold
He fought for his right to love
Yet anarchy took over
And like my right to try to continue using unnatural English
Nature would not allow it
For nature tires
We always seem to fight for things that seem right in plain sight
Yet refuse to take a step back and in plain thoughts ask ourselves
Is this right?
Nature has a way of correcting itself
Try as much, but A can never B O
‘We are meant to be together’ – you think?
Have you consulted with your gods about this thing you call together and think?
Well call me a damn fool, but care have I none,
But for love’s sake stab lust out with a stake.
Lust is tired of being called Love
It told me
Now Yaw, blinded by lust thinking twas love
Rests his head on my lap weeping to himself a song
Je suis fatigue, this is love lost.
But alas, je suis fatigue- this is lust lost!
Shall I rejoice? Well…
The 21st century damsel certainly was a damn sell
She sold all his lust-love for a damn cell
Call her Delilah if you please
But she n’est pas fatigue de lust.
She is still the love lost lust contains.
And on a collar, she still roams with love lost hang from her neck.