I'm sorry I couldn't finish the poem, but right as I was writing the last stanza my ex-girlfriend called and totally destroyed my inspiration. I thought it would be an injustice to continue on with my bad attitude, so I just wrapped it up there.
His name is John Andrews, a caller, a male
He lost his touch back when the war was engrailed
On his soft, petty mind, not along the red rail
His back was strewn calmly against the white fence
When the catchcrabs marched in soft pairs to the ships
The extravagent mechants sold souls off their hips
For three pence, sent along in the mail
And the seaspray was green with ripe envy
No more! cries the shipmate. No more! can I toil
This constant led-buggering distance is royal
To reign in a manner, if manner is coil
The satin sheets left on the bed, held with foil
To the butcher's wife, Anne, the dry sun had to bed
Drip drip drop the metal fell scourged on the sand
The plains burned away leaving scarred bits of land
And the seas left to bitter and boil
And the seaspray was red with full fury
The planks of your memory split at the bone
The crawling dew mornings spun down the moist cone
All the lifeboats remained dead or dying on stone
So the lifter has rested too late all alone
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Poetry by weirdzarun
Read 791 times
Written on 2007-07-13 at 04:04
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The Many Colors of Seaspray
There's a man on the streetside, his stogies are staleHis name is John Andrews, a caller, a male
He lost his touch back when the war was engrailed
On his soft, petty mind, not along the red rail
His back was strewn calmly against the white fence
When the catchcrabs marched in soft pairs to the ships
The extravagent mechants sold souls off their hips
For three pence, sent along in the mail
And the seaspray was green with ripe envy
No more! cries the shipmate. No more! can I toil
This constant led-buggering distance is royal
To reign in a manner, if manner is coil
The satin sheets left on the bed, held with foil
To the butcher's wife, Anne, the dry sun had to bed
Drip drip drop the metal fell scourged on the sand
The plains burned away leaving scarred bits of land
And the seas left to bitter and boil
And the seaspray was red with full fury
The planks of your memory split at the bone
The crawling dew mornings spun down the moist cone
All the lifeboats remained dead or dying on stone
So the lifter has rested too late all alone
----------
Poetry by weirdzarun
Read 791 times
Written on 2007-07-13 at 04:04
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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