Repo, Man. ====================== It is terrible to say, But they are always in a way Hoping towards someone elses Choosing to slay, to kill; it pays, They feel, off in the end, to wend Their ambition toward a send Another forward of and for Them, so they wait, and wonder, and Hope it will not be without blunder That some wan thunder becomes more Grist to their mill, peasantry asunder In an age of miracles and dunder Headed fiscals, even way down under, Where Nonmaldoraur abode, that road was Which did erode fraternity, because Cameraderies of isolations Could not suffice to make that Nation stay Beyond the Empire Way of auld, so play The scald could Nonmaldoraur, alone, staid Should be, it is terrible to say, naye, More than necessary, inner way, stop The rot a slogan He had not forgot From the dreamtime of His youth, ample proof There provided of how Man derided The future, a Left Wing which did not suit Your ambition on sojourning: You hoped They would hold the line, choose not to tine, tare Away, like some small boy one day, given A gun, told there you go, kill someone, near Where He lived, did, and kept it hid, riven Alkhemickal divide, a young girl called, Not taken for a ride, told to choose from The cliff face or the bullet, she did; wiled, He kept it hid, from most and sundry, some Knowing of how cute, he did not shoot, said Come, you are now one of us, though unbled Your corpse be, no meat instead of vampire Waize, the djinn that plays in the desert Where efreet grazes on the sands, aspires More to stormcloud than to mire: he was sent, A day to have spent near Nonmaldoraur, For reasons more mysterious than sure, Whose lore extending, exceeding senses Known to Man, relates betimes, what lenses Of truth to Him; of truth, to Him it is, Terrible to say, a society So marred His heart is more shielded than hard, And how that Left Wing did plus tard, business Dopes dashing down all our hopes, what might be Lost to venal certainty, retarded It is not, planet Now going to rot: stop it Another slogan Nonmaldoraur remembers, From His youth, from His own mouth; One might disappear, One who drew near, but now it Is not discretion That rhydes in session of Wild Hunt, they cannot play the cunt Who declares it is More than business which profits From such absences As say: how did they will o The wisp away, like efreet, Imagining themselves elite As oases hidden within Desert dunes, pitiful baboons, Waning moons, howling goetic Supertunes calling new aeons Down upon their crowns, demanding More than understanding, move on, That last aeon is dead, going To rest, let not phantoms molest The future uncaressed by droll Decisions to retain, to test Ra Hoors vengeance, it is best whole, Ra-Hoor-Khuit is not so fleet That the Nile Will muddies His Feet. It is promised to Those of True Will, who follow Through on promises, Enemies vanish before One, even as Suns do not; But what of the human lot, Of those who do not know, live As yet in pits of because: Even there, by human lores It may be demonstrated Betterment may be fated More by life affirming lieus Than lethal sacrificial hues Casting rainbows into blues: Never is the midnight Sun So uncolourful, so dun. ==================== https://youtube/watch?v=Q4HY544URjA
Posted on: Fri, 19 Dec 2014 23:05:20 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015