Spit the boom and trash the mark frail comrade.
Many are the lost days we mingled as amiables,
But you winked and sold my parts for a shilling.
Set my song on a piano and play in a theatre,
And the melody will run to my drum.
Pounce on me and bite like a mice.
Fire do you set and quenches with a snow,
Your return to me as a heavenly host, electrifies my veins with shocks,
And in pretence do I hide my revolt.
Why have you plan to boil my fresh?
The sputum of the death quenches not a fire,
And the venom of viper does nothing to the back of a tortoise.
Hold the mic and voice for fame,
But your tongue will ever be tagged with shame,
When not washed by the words of the book.
B