The roses you commissioned swam in the mud
staring at me blankly, whispering to me,
pick us up you fool, sing to us.
The pleasure of denouncing your hold on me
spilled onto my face as I trounced the roses.
Their murderous whispers reduced to inaudible gurgles
blocked by the crescendo of my blessed piety.
Lay down whatever is on your mind, in whatever way you want. All I ask is you don't be an ass. Wit, humorous snark, and forceful debate are welcome. Doucebaggery will be deleted, or edited to make you look the idiot.
← That is Amos Griffin's ugly mug. He appreciates you dropping by his humble weblog and hopes you come back again.
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