The passions of angels
The sweet lips of devils
All painted in lyric and rhyme
The mournings of widows
A maiden from Bordeaux
Faded like the whispers of time
The sins of the father
Has the heat of a solder
when struck like a notes minor key
the tides of fantastic
molded like plastic
but he whispers soft “none for me”

A grand poetaster
A tongue albaster
Who lives all alone in a cell
his words efficacious
but not here loquacious
with one billion stories to tell
his stirs hearts with scene
whether sweet or saline
and begs the soul to be free
but while quietly typing
his new novel ripening
he whispers soft “none for me”

his tales tell of glory
or momento mori
and always have bleak mirth to spare
his romances rending
with no ache of pretending
no drop of the vanity fair
songs trapped in paper
words flowing with vapor
the passions the flows all can see
but no glory betide him
and no lover beside him
his tombstone reads “none for me”