They Always Say Of The Curse, But Never Do They Dare Speak Of A Remedy
Is The Song In The Same Darvish As The Circle That Therefrom Blames Your Simple Games?
All these foundlings
So tender in their days
Yet spoilt by the treason
Going around by their elder-kin
And spoilt a-kin on life;
An eager sunset broaches their heart,
Naught — for a minor,
It might be aught.
So swiftly do I be hearing
Of a curse — a binding curse,
And which they vaunt onto their
Minors;
They seize and they scrabble
But little do I hear of the in-roads —
Relying upon the despair in their hearts, rattling red —
Always the crime for a-suffering
And a-warring to begin —
They Always Say Of The Curse,
But Never Do They Dare Speak Of A Remedy.
A damning lullaby places itself into its untimely tune —
As a village elder decries another genitor —
Who must beget,
Must thee die before the middling birch;
A-praying and a-crying are often heard to be the blame
Yet when his tantalizingly stubborn bosom
Wrecks a shoulder asunder to blame —
To war or naught to war — ’tis their remarks,
Steamed and accounted for.
When a minor spotted shall be taking up
That idolizing blame for the father slew upon
Another jinxing battlefield —
Stormy and closed,
His corpse sinks evermore into mud and steel —
But wrought vengeance or culling fear
It besets his next of kin —
Another jinxing a-done —
All the crops could muster this debloom —
Are the holders however filled?
Ring…ring…;- quarter that bell
I hear the master shy —
Voicing naught, for the deceased —
For he just figures as much as,
And so must be —
Laughter sly —
Laughter morphs in the chamber, but the chamber remains to be the same —
Ringing ever swollen,
The fine tale is ever told by an aging man,
Slept in wrinkles, dowsed in tears,
Fearless without blame, and so he must be —
And this is one, told by such age —
Yet it isn’t him — only me to this.
A manning to war, I suppose it must be done,
And done, now, as it must.
Things disappear, and they lose their hearts in it —
Leaving the Baron as the stark whoreson to be
The Only led to a role —
’Twas such a pity over this refining mitty;
Oscillated to reason, they prime themselves over
The priding war of it all,
Why such minor falls?
Clumping underhill like fallen logs,
Broached from the oak trees:
They Always Say Of The Curse,
But Never Do They Dare Speak Of A Remedy.
COME ALONG WITH THE DOCTOR’S NEWSLETTER
NO ONE KNOWS WHERE THE DAY SHALL LEAD THEM:
The Curation; Our Publication:
TONGUE TICKLERS —PASSAGES FOR THE MORN
As ever, Dear Reader.
